


Perfect Manic Sex

by geekns



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Cultural Differences, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien Sex, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Time Lords & Ladies, Angst, Animalistic, Bathroom Sex, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Girl Penis, Grief/Mourning, Isolation, Knotting, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Memory Loss, Menstrual Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Miscarriage, Mischief, Morning Sickness, No Refractory Period, Past Relationship(s), Porn With Plot, Pregnancy, Pregnancy Kink, Pregnant Sex, Psychic Bond, Shameless Smut, Solitary Confinement, Tea, Telepathic Bond, Telepathic Sex, Time Babies, Time Lord Reproduction, Vault Sex, hints of White Torture, possibly
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2018-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-04 11:26:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 93,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11554218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekns/pseuds/geekns
Summary: "We had a pact, me and him. Every star in the universe, we were going to see them all."  Only they weren't seeing every star in the universe.  They had made a new pact, one requiring the two renegade Time Lords to remain grounded for a thousand years, one in a Vault, the other in a classroom.  And whether he liked it or not that meant that the Doctor and Missy were going to have to work out their relationship issues sooner or later:  maybe both.





	1. May 1949

**Author's Note:**

> The Doctor and Missy don't actually belong to me. But since the BBC seems to be discarding them, i'm borrowing them.
> 
> This is in response to [a prompt from cielamisseh on Tumblr](http://cielamisseh.tumblr.com/post/162858728053/uncreativeartist-cielamisseh) that i kind of ran away with. I'm sorry, but it's not really very fluffy, and the fluffier I try to make it the more insane it's got (I blame a Green Wing rewatch). And since my mind always goes to alien biology now, this is going to be not only smutty but alien sex smutty. Lots of lemons, not much plot. We're starting out with a little fluff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor sat at his desk, licking his thumb, then flipping through an essay out of the shrinking stack of papers that sat on his desk. He chuckled to himself, picked up his red pencil, and scrawled a message to the student, complete with a sketch of Tesla boxing Einstein. He made a couple more red marks on pages 3 and 7, then set it aside to read the next. A tentative knock came from the door to the corridor outside his office.

“Go away,” he called, scribbling furiously on the last page of the new paper. Not only was a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on his door, but his office hours were posted as well. “Idiot,” he muttered to himself. “Doesn't even rhyme...”

The knock came again. “I said go away!” be barked, reaching for yet another paper. “Where's Nardole when I'm working?” The door opened a crack:

“Sorry to disturb you, sir, but it's rather urgent,” Nardole hovered in the doorway.

“What is it?” the Doctor asked crossly, underlining a sentence and scribbling a longish rant in the margin.

“It's, er, it's our guest, as it were.”

“And?” he continued marking up the next page.

“Er...” Nardole shuffled towards the desk. “She gave me a message for you, a rather lengthy one.” He held the document in question out, hand shaking. The Doctor set the essay aside and took the sheet that at one time had been a neatly folded triangle. Across one fold “URGENT for the Doctor's eyes only” was penned heavily in English. He flattened the sheet against the surface of his desk, fingers and gaze tracing the inscribed circles. Most of it was written in Gallifreyan, with other demands scribbled in Italian, Russian, and Nahuatl.

“Seven kinds of chocolate,” the Doctor muttered in disbelief, studying the list with more focus than he had given the papers he had been grading over the past hour. Her curved handwriting lacked its usual relaxed flourish, seemed heavier and tighter than usual. She listed tiramisu, cheesecake, gelato, five other Gallifreyan desserts, an obscure Gallifreyan tea, peppermint tea, raspberry leaf tea, Aztecan coffee, and some very specific Latin American cuisine. Below that she listed a hot water bottle, an afghan, a pair of _his own_ pajamas! And in further Gallifreyan some native herbs, flowers, facial mask, lotion... a clawfoot _bathtub???_ He sat up straighter: “We're not running a spa here.” He didn't have time for this, and could feel a dull headache starting to build in his sinuses. His fingertips itched.

“I'm sorry sir,” Nardole agreed.

“Then you can go back and tell her...”

“I think it would be better if it came from you,” Nardole interrupted, his voice going squeaky.

“Why?”

“She wasn't too happy that I had unfolded it,” Nardole explained. “I heard a crash in her loo and I think she's crying. She was certainly shouty. She insisted I not come back anytime in the next, er, millennium.” The last bit wasn't too irregular. She was barely starting to warm up to Nardole, was far from fond of him, and refused to act as if she even knew his name.

The Doctor continued to study the page, trying to work out what the items had in common if _not_ conclusive evidence that the Mistress was a diva. It was unlike her to be so specific in her demands, she had been very minimalist in her requests since they had come to this arrangement, truth be told. And then he noticed one last whorl of Gallifreyan at the bottom, so tiny that he couldn't even make it out at first. It was almost as if she had run out of room on the page or if this item was added as an afterthought. It had been added with less pressure, her hand had shaken slightly on one of the semi-circles, he could barely read it even after he pulled out a pair of specs and perched them on the tip of his nose.

It was the name of a Gallifreyan drug, not one he was familiar with. He doubted the Tardis had it in stock. He couldn't even remember what it was used for, but if she was coming down with something... His sinuses were twinging now.

“She's never asked for romantic fiction before,” Nardole pointed out in an attempt to help, referring to the demands scribbled in a neat Russian Cyrillic. “And those films: Titanic, Jaws, and 2012?!?”

“She finds romance and disaster films hilarious,” the Doctor muttered. “But she knows I won't let her watch anything too violent...” She had stopped requesting programs like Game of Thrones or Saving Private Ryan after the first year. The drug request bothered him, in her nearly four year stay in the Vault she had never asked him for so much as a pain killer. She refused to take them even when she had a migraine, which had been more often than he would have liked as of late. Sometimes he thought Missy enjoyed being in pain.

He jotted down a partial version of Missy's list in English and handed it to Nardole. “Right, get all that, I'm going to pop into the Tardis...” Nardole glared at him. “To see if we've any of this medicine she asked for!”

“Medicine?” Nardole squeaked. “Is she sick? I just washed her dishes.”

“I'm sure she's fine,” the Doctor shot back. As if Nardole could catch a disease from a Time Lady! “It's probably just a tantrum, but I'm going to make sure.”

“Promise me I don't have to go in there again,” Nardole begged. “She's being scarier than usual.”

“I'll deal with her after I finish marking.” He was almost finished anyway. Nardole looked less droopy than usual in response to that and shuffled off to the market. The Doctor marked the last ten, eleven papers with his usual speed but found that he was distracted. Why couldn't he remember what that drug was used for? He pinched the bridge of his nose, which seemed to make his headache worse rather than better.

 

Five minutes later he was in the Tardis. It was on minimal power, but perked up a little bit in greeting. “Hello Sexy,” he greeted, dragging his fingertips along the console as he circled around to the browser. He punched the drug in, hunting and pecking for the right symbols on the keyboard, which was mainly used for English rather than Gallifreyan. It had been a while since it had been used for either. The Tardis pulled it up nearly instantaneously.

“Birth control?” he sputtered. He noticed that he was scratching his fingers absently. “Fuck,” he swore under his breath, the gears in his head finally turning. She had left residual psychic energy on the page, her cycle almost certainly had already begun. He shoved his hands into his pockets and scrolled through the list of other medical applications. This particular type of birth control halted cycles with half of users, assuming it was used once every seventy-five years. Unfortunately, there was also a side effect of having to deal an unusually high excess of psychic energy when one eventually went off the drug, which was why his hands were currently tingling as if he'd been bitten by fire ants. If she was overdue for a booster...

He fell back in a nearby chair running his hands across his face, then through his hair. Shit, his scalp and face were itching now. The way he saw it, he could let Missy suffer alone for the next couple of days--in which case she might spontaneously regenerate, depending on the intensity of her heat... or simply never speak to him again--or face this like a man. After all, it was as much his fault as hers that she was in this situation. Cohabiting Time Lords sometimes experienced more aggressive cycles after all, and they were both in newly rebooted regeneration cycles to add insult to injury. He resisted the urge to scratch at his scalp mercilessly and rushed upstairs.

 

He had searched everywhere in the MedLab. And then in the laboratory and as many bathrooms as he could find for good measure. Funny thing, he wasn't in the habit of stocking up on Gallifreyan birth control. He didn't have any, not the kind Missy wanted, nor any other brand or variety. He didn't even have Human birth control on hand, not that it would have helped her. He should have thought of this possibility, nay eventuality, sooner. Stupid, stupid Doctor.

Nardole had stuck his head in the door at one point, saying he was dropping off those supplies in the console room and refusing to go anywhere near the Vault. Missy was probably desperate to see him by now, which sent another pang of guilt through him. Things were gearing up for finals and he hadn't been down to see her since the day before yesterday, and then only briefly. He really didn't have time for this. He wasn't sure he could handle Missy if she was in the state he suspected she was. Mind you, he was still in practice after his night with River.

After Nardole left the Tardis he didn't go downstairs straight away. He powered the Tardis up and dropped by every off world hospital and clinic he could think of that might carry what she needed in stock. Nothing. If only she had said something a year ago, he might have been able to do something... But it wouldn't have made any difference in the long run, there was no drug to be had and now it was too late.

The only place he hadn't stopped by was Gallifrey, obviously. He still couldn't properly remember where Gallifrey was, since those memories were tied to his last adventure with Clara, and Missy certainly hadn't told him. Not that he could have risked getting stuck there even if he had known. Though it would certainly be a valid excuse to give her of why he hadn't opted to help her through what was probably going to be a hellish case of PMS. A part of him wondered if Missy had done this on purpose, but that was ridiculous; she surely hadn't intended to be imprisoned.

The pharmacy option out, he stayed in the time vortex for a couple of days, using the Tardis medical database to figure out if he could manufacture the drug himself or even procure the ingredients to do so. Formulating the drug was a rather complicated process, would certainly take a decade to complete, and he suspected he would botch it up the first few attempts. He wasn't willing to use Missy as a test subject. Fortunately, he had picked up a few things from her list of demands along the way and it was easy enough to procure a bathtub, some necessaries that Missy hadn't even put on the list, and a takeaway meal from a restaurant that made the best Gallifreyan-Cassiopeian fusion cuisine he had ever tasted off their homeworld.

He set the Tardis down outside the Vault five minutes prior to having left his office, a bit bedraggled and tired. He'd been on three adventures, eight pointless drug-closet raids, and fifteen shopping trips. He was verging on exhausted, and briefly considered taking a nap. He was too worried to sleep and his headache, now receded to a dull buzzing behind his eyes, had persisted his entire quest. Resigned to the task ahead, he quickly loaded everything up on his best anti-grav cart and pushed it all toward the Tardis' exterior doors.


	2. Fifteen Minutes Earlier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, cutting to the chase. Massive rewrite, sorted, never mind.
> 
>  

Missy sat at the center of the containment field, pouring milk into her tea, watching the shapes it made as it unfurled. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, too warm, the light streaming in the windows just a little too bright. Eeyore was muttering to himself as he cleaned, which really did not help her focus. Her fingers were itching as she caressed the handle of her teacup, her mind buzzing angrily in response to each little noise he made. He smelled horrid, felt out of place, an intruder in what had become the only personal space she had. His very presence unnerved her. She picked up her spoon, let it drop with a small clatter. He turned to face her, oblivious:

“Right then, is there anything else I can do for you, ma'am?” he asked as he dried his hands with the towel he had been using to dry the breakfast dishes. He tossed the cloth aside, not even bothering to hang it properly, trying to affect an air of casual indifference. She stood and took three steps towards him, eyes narrowing as he froze like a deer in headlights.

“I have something for the Doctor, poppet.” He sighed in relief, only hovering three seconds before reciprocating by approaching the other side of the forcefield. She held the note out towards the invisible slot, that one area of her gilded birdcage that was designed to allow small items through: a book, tea, etc. He stepped just close enough for the slot to open and she passed her handwritten message through. She had to force herself not to yank her hand back as he took it.

“I'm not a girl,” he intoned, sounding bored. He started to unfold her meticulously folded triangle. “What's this then?”

It all happened in an instant. Nardole had already started to look down at her entreaty and for the first time since the Doctor had put her in this dreary room, Missy found herself threatening bodily injury to someone. Her hand darted out before she could stop herself, nails clawing for the page that her substitute carer clutched in his little piggy fingers. He leapt away from the forcefield before she could so much as scratch, but her right hand was still hovering mid-swipe. The slot couldn't close unless she retracted it further.

“Little ass,” she hissed at him, yanking her head backward before she singed her hair in the flickering energy. “If you read that, I will hide your tail somewhere you will never find it.”

“I haven't got a tail!” he squeaked.

“Then I suppose I'll have to find a slightly more useful appendage to amputate if you continue to read my private correspondence, do I make myself clear?!?”

Nardole's head bobbed quickly in acquiescence. Her eyes were burning, she was _not_ going to cry in front of this drudge. “I need to see the Doctor _right now._ Do come back for a visit any time in the thirty-second millennium.” Her eyes locked onto the page in his hand, the way he was holding it, the fact that he could read even a portion of it, was too much.

Her hearts were trying to pound out of her chest, she couldn't _breathe_ , her bypass was already kicking in. She yanked at the scarf tied about her neck with her left hand, pulling it free, wrapping it around her right hand before ripping a button off her jacket. She thrust her right hand sideways into the forcefield, where the slot hovered closest to the strut, pinpointing its obvious weakness, forcing the button into a malfunctioning emitter and overheating it. Her prison flickered, then failed entirely. She dashed forward, past the idiot, and into the safety of her powder room.

Slamming the door behind herself felt immensely satisfying. She collided with her padded stool, knocking it over, almost following it to the floor. Her head was throbbing now. She tore at her clothes, breaching layers insistently without regard for button or seam. Jacket and blouse torn open, she clutched at her corset, fumbling with the fasteners. Her vision was going blurry now, little spots dancing before her eyes. She yanked hard.

She felt the ripping as if inside her very soul. Her corset opened and she could finally breathe again. She lurched over to the sink, propping herself up over it, trying to get her breathing under control, waiting for her nausea to abate. Her corset was gradually freeing itself from her body with every great gasp she took. It took her several long minutes to bring everything back down to a reasonable level. She looked pale as milk in the mirror, still trembling, but she was sane again.

She could smell her sweat soaking through her chemise, shuddered. She began undressing properly, unwrapping her armor piece by piece, jacket, blouse, corset discarded. She righted the stool and sat down, untying her boots before shimmying out of her skirt and petticoats, peeling off her drawers and hose. She shivered, her sweat cooling her skin uncomfortably in the dim room. She pulled her chemise over her head, dropped it, and stepped into the shower.

The water was immensely soothing but a new tension had taken ahold of her body, one that wouldn't let go of her for hours yet. Fear and anticipation braided together as one in response. The Doctor would know soon enough, if he didn't already. She wondered if he would run away or come to her aid. How long would she have to wait? Would he come empty-handed or bearing gifts? When they had been young he had always brought her gifts, given her long massages, read to her as they waited for the heat to take hold, for her body to start singing, then screaming. Perhaps he might not come at all. Who was she fooling, he was about to storm down here, all eyebrows and full of rage over the way she had just overreacted to his harmless idiot of a servant.

The thought both terrified and aroused her. Her own skin felt alien to her, tender and responsive as she washed her stink away, down the drain. Her nipples had hardened and peaked when she got cold, were now refusing to go down under the hot water. She rubbed them tentatively, was surprised how sensitive they were. This form had never felt anything like it, she had never let herself go into heat. Not without the Doctor. She would have let herself regenerate on purpose rather than share her heats with anyone other than him. She felt a pulling in her unmentionables in response to her pinching and pulling, a fluttering deep down in her belly, a tingling that spread, itching. She rubbed at the flesh between her legs inquisitively, scratching, first gingerly, then carefully with nails. It didn't help. She felt hollow and overstretched. The itching had in fact gotten worse.

She shut off the water and toweled off briskly, trying and succeeding at causing herself discomfort. Her clothes were strewn everywhere, stinking to high heaven. She snatched them up and stuffed them into her wicker hamper. She could hear the Tardis landing as if far away, barely audible but bright against her mind. She dashed to the mirror, but couldn't make her appearance out in its fog. She could feel strands falling out of her usual coif but she didn't have time to fix her hair. It just wouldn't do for the Doctor to walk in on her nude. He'd likely have a heart attack. She opened a drawer, pulled out her most modest nightdress, and pulled it over her head, careful not to snag her hair. The neckline was tight against her throat, restrictive as she buttoned it at her nape. She retrieved her robe from its hook, pulled it on, then dashed back to the door, hand on the knob. The door had no lock, but she supposed she could always try to stop him from coming in. In that moment she wasn't sure if she wanted him to see her or go away.

Only he didn't come see her straightaway. Hadn't, must've stopped somewhere else along the way. She could hear him rummaging about in the kitchenette, putting some shopping away. It was all very domestic and unlike him and made her melt against the door.  He couldn't be bothered to take care of her usually, left it all to the servant his _ex_ had given him. She wondered how he had behaved with River, if he wished that bitch was the one locked in here rather than her. She had heard stories about the Queen of the Storm Cage. Missy untied and retied her robe a few times, trying to get the bow just so, to drape in a way that flattered rather than looked frumpy. She wondered if her makeup was a fright by now, she had probably sweat it all off, should have washed her face in the shower.

She could feel him on the other side of the door before she heard him, his mind quiet and cool against her own. He had meditated and prepared himself, then. She was grateful, his well-ordered mind would make this easier for her. He was shielding himself, of course, but their bond was still there underneath, his mind familiar and soothing. She felt his mind pulling at hers, a warmth pooling deep inside her, a tingling in her loins as his essence whispered _safe_ in response to the muddle of her thoughts. He cleared his throat, then knocked gently:

“Missy, please let me in.” Her hand shook around the knob and she was failing at controlling her breathing.

“I think that's rather a bad idea at the moment, dear,” she demurred. Her hearts started pounding again, though not as fiercely as earlier. She found herself nervous about his upcoming response to her destructive behavior. He was so protective of his pets. He didn't sound or feel angry, at least.

“Missy, please,” he repeated. She made him wait a moment longer. It was inevitable, there was no way she would be able to refuse him forever, but she needed that moment of control, to reassure herself that he would respect her privacy, not force himself on her. A part of her thrilled at the very idea of him forcing.... No, no he would never do that.

She opened the door tentatively, insinuating her body into the empty space, not quite ready to let him in. He was dressed sharply in a new charcoal grey twill suit, a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a paper sack in the other. He had bathed recently, his natural scent only faint beneath the soap and dash of aftershave. She could tell that he still used the same soap that she had always bought when they were first trying on being a couple, a scent that was warm and slightly woody rather than sweet and floral. It felt like he was coming home after a long day's work, which she supposed he was. He used to tell her how his day had been, eagerly relate his research, whatever the latest problem had been, pick her brain for solutions. He never did that anymore. She missed him terribly even while he was standing right in front of her.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to threaten your pet,” she found herself apologizing. She honestly hadn't meant to.

“What?” his eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “What the tossing him out? I do that to him at least once a week.” He obviously didn't know what she was talking about. Nardole hadn't told him then. She dropped her eyes to stare at the Doctor's chest, not able to stop herself from adjusting his slightly crooked black tie:

“No, I...don't be angry. When he opened the correspondence...I threatened him with bodily injury. I deactivated the containment field.”

“And did you?” She looked up again, allowing their eyes to meet, startled by the kindness and understanding she found there. She couldn't remember the last time he had looked at her that way.

“Did I what?” she asked.

“Injure him?”

“Well, no I...” she struggled to think. “I wanted to, but...” she felt silly and embarrassed. She had come very close to losing control, could have easily killed the man with her bare hands, but had a panic attack instead. It was humiliating, she didn't even know _why_ it had happened, only that the Doctor would have never forgiven her.

“Then there's nothing to forgive,” he assured her, interrupting her racing thoughts. He held the flowers out to her. They weren't the same as the ones from her list, but then she hadn't really expected them to be. She took them, breathing in their subtle, soothing scent. She felt some of her tension melt away.

“Does he know?” she asked, voice whisper-soft.

“No,” he assured her warmly. “Your secret is safe with me.” The great secret of Time Lord intercourse. She could feel his humor at the suggestion that he would ever discuss sex with a subordinate that didn't even class as a friend in his mind, sensed that he was about to move just as he decided to. She stepped backward with him as he stepped forward, almost as if they were dancing together without even touching. She blushed as they floated through the humid air. She knew the flowers did little to freshen the room, the air still heavy with her own bouquet.

The Doctor strode past her, relaxed and nonchalant. He had never seen this, her most recent form, in any state of dress other than her usual modest, put-together perfection, and still barely looked at her. Her high necked nightgown left a lot to the imagination and yet... she felt naked before him. And he wasn't even _looking_. He moved to the cupboard, opened its door, and started pulling beauty supplies out of his sack and putting them away. He set a vase on the vanity.

She followed him across the room, feeling both skittish and foolish for being so, unwrapping the newspaper from around the flowers before setting them in the vase, fluffing them a bit. He pulled a drawer open and started shoving feminine napkins, tampons, and other related supplies from a variety of time zones into it, quickly and efficiently. He seemed so relaxed, not at all embarrassed, as if this were an everyday occurrence. He had even found her favorite brand but also some new products to try.

“So I take it you couldn't find any...?” she couldn't bring herself to say contraceptives.

“Sorry, no,” he confirmed, closing the drawer. “It seems the market for Time Lord pharmaceuticals has dried up.” She hadn't expected his search to be any more fruitful than her own had been after taking her final dose but had also wanted to give him something to do. Men always wanted a way to fix things. She was well beyond being able to be fixed and here he was, still trying. She found it a small comfort that she was here on Earth with him rather than still surrounded by Daleks. “You wouldn't happen to have any in your Tardis?”

“No,” she stated gently yet firmly, carrying the vase out of the room and to the kitchenette sink to fill it with water.

It was an old argument already. He had asked a few times where she had parked. No doubt UNIT had her time machine in a lab somewhere and was still trying to figure out a way to get into it. Decades in the future, but the fact remained. She couldn't exactly tell him where to find her Tardis in the current time zone just to steal from her past self: that would have been disastrous.

It was just as well, she had hated taking the damn drugs. She had experienced bad side effects from several of the contraceptives that had been available in their youth. Her thoughts strayed to their first sexual encounter, before they had even turned one hundred. How awkward and earnest they had been. She closed her eyes at the memory of his body clumsily rocking into her impossibly young one, barely past puberty the pair of them. Sure, it had been after they had left the academy, but they had still been babies, so young and bright and cocksure of themselves. And she had trusted him wholeheartedly at the time, just as much as she had trusted herself.

But their first time hadn't been an intentional encounter so much as a reactionary one. Not only that, but it had been the catalyst for the change in their relationship from just friends (when had they ever been _just_ friends) to something even more, something baser and necessary yet forbidden. She would always wonder if he would have made that same choice rationally rather than reactionarily had he been given a chance. Would he still have actually wanted her? She still hated the thought of losing control of her body... but once every twenty-five years was better than the recurring migraines multiple times a year that no pain-killer seemed to come close to touching.

“Are you feeling up to dinner?” he was beside her again, feeling simultaneously too close and too far away. Her nerves were going raw. He had gestured to a box of takeaway on the cafe table they usually ate at. She shrugged:

“If you like,” she carried the vase to her tea table, up on the dais, and continued arranging.

“When did you last eat?”

“Yesterday,” she answered quickly, without thinking about it, then realized it was a lie. “The day before.” She could feel his disapproval.

“Please eat,” he gently insisted.

“I said okay,” she retorted in a sing song voice, hoping she didn't sound too cross. Her temper was just a bit short at the moment. She picked up the tea tray and carried it to the cafe table, leaving the flowers. Her tea was probably too cold to drink, but the pot was still warmish. She poured him a cup, doctoring it with sugar the way she knew he liked, just a dram of milk.

The Doctor had started unloading cartons from the box. She had to admit it _did_ smell good. She opened and peeked into one, nose wrinkling. Who would ruin Gallifreyan banana pudding by adding Cassiopean mangoes? The Doctor held another carton out to her, a smirk on his face. She took it, feeling her entire body light up in response to the heavenly scent.

She tore the carton open, inhaled. He had remembered. “Thank you,” she breathed. She grabbed her neatly stacked teacup, spoon, and saucer, carried them across the room. She set her teacup on the coffee table before collapsing into her favorite of the two mismatched chesterfield chairs. She pulled her knees up to her chest before digging in, too hungry to wait for the Doctor to join her. He came to sit next to her soon enough.

They fell into a companionable silence. She ate with a drive that surprised even her, somehow managing to eat every morsel, making pleased little noises in the back of her throat as she did so. The food was amazing. He ate at a much more leisurely pace, draining his tea first, then mostly only playing with his food. He looked exhausted. His body gradually relaxed and melted into the chair.

“How was your day?” she asked, longing to give him a massage. He shrugged, half-heartedly digging for another bite.

“It was fine,” he didn't elaborate. She wasn't surprised when his eyelids started drooping, the Doctor drifting off to sleep. Perhaps she should feel complimented that he trusted her enough to do so with her in the room, but she mostly felt unwanted and ignored. She didn't want him to be doing any of this out of obligation. She tossed her empty box aside on the coffee table and arched her back, one foot stretching out to press against his knee.

“Doctor,” she murmured, waking him back up. He immediately went back to eating as if he hadn't been snoozing, pretending that he was still oblivious of her touch, her gradually worsening condition. The point of connection between them felt electric, her hands and feet now vibrating with anticipation, a subtle tingling that was still easy to suppress but gradually rising in pitch. They were fast running out of time. Right now she was resigned to it, in few more minutes she would be desperate. She ripped open the collar of her nightgown, revealing porcelain skin from earlobe to sternum... and that she was also, of course, braless. She could hear his mental response loud and clear:

 _Fuck_. He choked on his food, coughing roughly. She tried not to laugh as his brain sputtered in response to the sensory input. He was always so cute when he got like this. She moved to perch on the arm of his chair, rubbing his back, sharing body heat with him. The coughing ended eventually, and she helped him take a sip of her tea since his was gone. She could guess his thoughts: too milky, not sweet enough, too cold. He drank it without verbal complaint, anyway, then focused on breathing smoothly.

“I'm fine,” he muttered, shaking her hand off his back. He sat up straighter, running a hand through his hair and setting it on end. “Missy, we need to talk.”

“Oh, all right then, let's talk,” she threw up her hands before standing, hiding her face from him as she carried their teacups to the tea tray. “I'm sure talking will help this situation.”

“Well it just might,” he insisted, anger breaking through in his voice. “We _need_ to talk about this. You're my guest here, my patient...”

“I think the word you're looking for is prisoner, dear,” she responded dryly. She paced before him, deliberate in her slowness as she picked up her discarded carton, stormed over to the bin, and flinged the rubbish into it with more force than was strictly necessary. She turned to find that he was standing almost directly behind her. She tried to sidestep him, but he sidestepped with her, hands outstretched in surrender.

“That's the point," he assured her, his voice maddeningly calm. "I'm not going to just...take advantage of you.”

“I think you'll find it's the other way around, dear,” she dashed around him, retrieving the tea tray before returning to the kitchenette. He grabbed at her belt as she swept past, following her like a lost puppy.

“I know you don't want to be here...”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” she responded, starting to run a sink of hot, soapy water. “Don't forget the food,” she ordered, not even looking to see if he obeyed her. It only took him a moment to put away the rest of the cooling takeout, tucking it into the icebox. Her mind was rushing a hundred lightyears a minute with all the things she wanted to tell him but had never let herself. Well her inhibitions weren't that far gone quite yet. She hoped.

He handed her his spoon, the last of their meal's dishes, tentatively picking up Nardole's towel and taking up the space beside her, drying dishes as she finished washing them. She tried to ignore him, her focus on scrubbing each dish in turn. He turned his entire body to face hers:

“You'd rather have the contraceptives than have to ask me for help, I get it....”

“No, you don't,” she hissed back. “Let's not forget that I was the one who threw myself at you,” she turned to face him, “and you were the one who rejected me not once, but twice.” She poked him hard in the chest for emphasis. “ _You_ threatened to kill _me_ , sent me yer stupid confession dial, and then ya vanish without a trace. And then, when I do finally catch up with ya, the wee _girl_ insisting on coming along, I save both her and yer stupid arse, but received absolutely no thanks for it.” She went back to the washing. “Or did you think I wanted to be abandoned fer all my troubles?”

“I suppose not, when you put it that way,” he allowed quietly. “So what _do_ you want, Missy?”

“You!” she shot back, trying to stop the tears before they could properly start. She struggled to master her voice. “I want _you_. I properly begged for ya to spare my life because, for reasons I don't quite understand, I _still_ want my friend back. Despite the fact that ya keep rejecting and abandoning me. Despite the fact that ya went and got yerself married to humans _repeatedly_.”

She pulled the sink's plug and fled across the room, throwing herself onto the circular red fainting couch dramatically, allowing her tears to fall. He finished drying and putting away the dishes, hung the towel up neatly, and then followed her at a much more sedate pace. He sat down heavily on the couch's other side, his back to her head. “ _Is it_ because of your wife?” she asked quietly. “Would you rather I released you from this obligation?”

“It isn't that,” he assured her. “She's dead and gone, and you...” his voice caught. “You will _always_ be my first wife.”

“You have a funny way of showing it,” she hmphed.

“It's not easy for me,” he confessed. “This body doesn't trust easily, doesn't have the same needs as most men, but I _am_ trying. You may have to give me a couple centuries.”

“We all have needs, dear,” she objected, throwing an arm over her flushed face, tugging at her collar with her other hand. She was more than a little warm. “I'm afraid you only have a couple of minutes at best.”

“I just wanted to be sure that I have your permission before we do this,” he assured her. “I would never want to take advantage of someone under my care.”

“Am I?” she asked. Under his care? “It doesn't feel like it.” She ran her hands down her body once, forced herself not to let her hands roam and return to her tender breasts. Her nipples were so receptive that it was painful at this point, even her nightgown brushing against them was agony. She could feel her mind clawing for purchase, desperate not to be swept away in the wave of emotions that was threatening to drown her. She sat up, turning to face him, and reached for his hand next to her on the couch, trying to ground herself against his cool strength. “I choose this,” she assured him.

He turned to face her, his blue-grey eyes meeting her own, the golden sunlight setting his silver hair alight like a halo. Her entire body tensed in anticipation of his response. She was starting to lose her grip on reality, everything was falling away to be replaced by an all consuming need that would soon rage through her body and burn this form away unless he saved her.

She tried to get a grip on herself, to calm her mind. The last vestiges of the logical part of her mind were rebelling against this...weakness. She should be above needing the Doctor, above the needs of her body. She knew she was being too open with him and he would use it to hurt her. And yet there was no place in the universe she would rather be. Truly. All of her schemes had never brought her anything more than temporary joy. This had always been her aim, somehow it had all brought her to exactly the place that had been her destination to begin with. Her aim had always been to get her friend back in whatever capacity he would have her.

She gripped his hand harder when he moved off the couch, holding on for as long as she could. He kept his hands where she could see them as he knelt before her, still tentative, attack eyebrows turned off, eyes tender. He settled on his knees before her, bending to catch hold of one of her dangling bare feet, sending a thrill through her, body and soul.

“What have I done to deserve you?” he asked quietly.

“I'm terribly sorry, but I'm afraid I'm exactly the sort of woman you deserve,” she whispered.

“I yield my body and mind,” he promised in High Gallifreyan using the simple eternal tense.

“I yield body and mind,” she repeated. _Forever._ Her breath caught as he pressed a kiss against her instep. He shook his head, looking as if he was trying to get water out of his ears, her mind momentarily overwhelming him as their bond was renewed. She could feel the universe slipping away from her, only had him left to hold on to. Her time sense tickled somewhere in the back of her mind, demanding attention, giving her a feeling almost like needing to sneeze. He started to massage her foot, his thumbs quickly finding the old rhythm. She fell back against the couch, back arching, limbs unfurling, chest thrust upwards, humming in approval. She pressed her foot more firmly into his grip. “This will destroy us,” she whispered, barely loud enough for him to hear, breath hitching again, moan escaping her unbidden. She would beat this, just this once.

Most Time Lords' biggest relationship struggle was the passion that their bodies forced them to express periodically. It didn't sit well with their sexually repressed culture. But it wasn't just the all consuming need for sex that didn't sit well with them, it was the intimacy of two minds joined together as one. It was difficult to find someone you trusted that much come hell or high water. The result was that most women sought chemical sterilization, alternate forms of procreation, and regenerated into men at the first opportunity. Well, over _her_ dead body. She would face the oncoming storm and still be here to tell the tale afterward. She clutched at the couch for dear life as the Doctor sent her body and mind soaring higher.

“If by my rending, you find relief,” he quoted, fingertips coaxing the tension out of her. “I will worship you 'til break of day. I your servant, not your master.” Her eyes fluttered open, bright ice flashing beneath nearly-shut eyelids, and she gasped for air, stretching her other foot towards his lap. She brushed her free toes down and up and down and up the inside of his thigh, careful not to touch him where she assumed his body most wanted it, teasing and demonstrating that she was still at least partially in control and not a completely wanton, mindless thing. He manipulated her captured foot with more conviction, as if to prove himself above such distractions, as if to prove to her that he was capable of distracting her more thoroughly.

Her breathing hitched, her stroking toes faltering, legs falling apart in unconscious petition, body screaming for more. This was her first heat in this body, she reminded herself. They would need to take things slowly. He slowed his ministrations to torturous whisper-soft caresses. “Forbid, and I will cease,” he continued to whisper. “Banish me, and I will fly away. Decree, and I will throw myself at your mercy.” She squirmed in desperation:

“Don't stop...” she commanded. He reapplied himself, her breathing and heartsbeat stuttering beneath his fingertips. She was so close, was at his mercy. He didn't stop. She started to say his name, his given name, but it caught in her throat. She threw her head back in ecstasy, back arching again, toes curling. A soft moan poured out of her mouth like music, her scent heightening, pouring over them, her cunt gushing as she came. She keened, flying apart in his hands, entire body vibrating, relief flooding through her and threatening to wash her away entirely.  She felt as if she was blushing with her entire body as it continued to wash over her.

She savoured the feel of his essence bright in her mind, a certain pride and accomplishment coming across, but still mostly shielded against her own hot and chaotic thoughts. She felt her release radiating across his fingertips at the peripheral of her mind, tension fleeing her frame and making her sag, boneless. She scrambled to re-erect her shields as best she could, hand reaching for the Doctor's as her consciousness drained away. He remained in his reverent and distant pose, set apart, but she still felt his fingertips caressing the back of her hand just as she fell into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if any of this is confusing, as it's been a while since i've written anything and i am trying to show not tell as much as possible. I think i sometimes leave important details out in a foolhardy attempt to be mysterious.


	3. Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I have to apologize for this taking so long to post. I have a new collaborative fanfiction project that I will be working on simultaneously that will have to take priority and the past week has been hellish because of personal health issues that are leaving me feeling mighty sympathetic towards Missy.
> 
> Secondly, this is sooo not safe for work. Very smutty. A train wreck of sexy times. You have been warned.
> 
> Also, you may have read that Time Lords have been cursed with infertility and use [looms to procreate](http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/Loom). It's never actually been depicted on the show to my knowledge, it's from one of the novelizations and the curse has also been broken. I'm basically ignoring looms except for a reference to Time Lords trying to figure out other ways to procreate cuz they hate this heat business so much.
> 
>  

Missy had thrown her right arm over her face mid-ecstasy, and the Doctor averted his eyes rather than watch her flushed face or heaving chest. Not that he needed to see her face to know that she had come completely undone. Missy's scent was overwhelming now, it was all he could do not to grab her by the hips and bury his nose in the junction of her thighs. He slowed his hands' motions to a slow, gentle rubbing, gradually drawing her back down to earth, until it was completely over and she had stopped burning...for now. Some cycles massaging her extremities would have been enough to sate her appetite, but he was certain they would not be so lucky tonight. She would need to rest and recover for a while.

He still held her foot gently yet firmly, anchoring her to the world, thumbs brushing the flesh covering her metatarsals sedately. It wasn't enough for her, she reached her left hand out to him, needing, vulnerable. He brushed the fingers of his right hand across her metacarpals, could feel her mind already slipping away into unconsciousness as he meshed their fingers together. Within moments she was dreaming, her fatigue pulling him down with her. The Doctor pushed himself away abruptly, running his fingers through his hair, centering himself.

There wasn't time for sleep. He forced himself to his feet, shaking himself awake with a mighty yawn. He rearranged Missy's limbs and lifted her, carrying her over to her side of the bed and tucking her in. _Her_ side of the bed: he still thought of all beds that way, with one side always left empty for her even when he slept in his own bed, alone. He allowed the back of one of his hands to drift across her forehead. She was still dreaming, remembering their life when they had been young and happy, before their lives had been torn apart and he had realized how different she was from him. Before he had run away. She looked so innocent and harmless while she slept, it was almost enough to make him forget how utterly mad and devious she could be. Almost.

The light in the room was starting to dim towards sunset, turning orange and pink. It wouldn't be long before she would wake again, needing. He had work to do. He walked to the Vault entrance, opening its hatch to reveal the tub, still waiting on the deactivated anti-grav cart. He hurried to power it on and push the monstrosity into the en suite, grumbling to himself. He had gone soft, and Missy would take it as weakness he was sure. He just kept telling himself that the tub wasn't actually an extravagance so much as a necessity. He had no doubt that they would need to use it tonight and she would also appreciate it over the next couple days.

It was an easy enough task, really, expanding the room to make enough space, programming the plumbing, reinforcing the floor, all handled by the Vault mainframe. The technology was remarkably similar to the Tardis' ability to grow and expand to meet the needs of her Time Lord... without the Vault actually being alive. The cart was able to slide the tub into its intended corner of the room and gently drop the tub into place. He had to finish hooking the pipes up by hand, of course. He allowed his mind to wander while he worked, finding it meditative. Art would have been more effective at organizing his mind but he found calm in this task as well.

Once finished he stumbled back into the main room of the Vault, nudging the empty cart before him. He should check the containment field, see how badly she had buggered it up. He scanned it with his sonic, impressed that she had deactivated it to so neatly. He would need to replace one emitter and she had blown the feedback buffer entirely. He would have to retrieve parts later on, could probably find something inside the Tardis that would work. He was too exhausted to be bothered at the moment.

He pushed the anti-grav cart out the Vault hatch, back into the Tardis, and left it in the console room, tucked out of the way so he didn't trip over it next time he rushed inside. He dashed upstairs to his fiction bookcase, grabbed _The Time Travelers Wife_ and _The Time Machine_. She had always been partial to H.G. Wells. He left his sonic screwdriver on the shelf. Out the console room doors with a snap, check the external locks, stumble back into the Vault. His body was heavy with fatigue as he closed the hatch one last time for the evening. Books on her book table, at the bottom of the stack lest she throw a fit.

He could barely stand upright at this point. Should he take a chair, the chaise lounge? Fuck that, he was joining her on the bed. He couldn't even be bothered to change, he'd just take his jacket and shoes off. He shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on the bedknob, and sat down, untying his shoes and straightening them side by side beneath the bed. That sorted, he fell back heavily, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow to avoid the bright simulated moonlight that was now streaming through a nearby window. Missy threw an arm over his chest, startling him. She tucked her face against his shoulder. His hand found the tangle of hair at the nape of her neck. She had an elevated temperature, almost as high as a human's body temperature, which wasn't quite feverish, but was certainly high enough to worry him. He was already drifting...

 

...The next thing he knew was that nearly five hours had passed and Missy's body was twisting in his arms fitfully. She had wrapped her body around his in her sleep, clinging as if for dear life. Flickers of impressions from her nightmare flashed across his visual perception. He had never felt a Time Lady run so hot, this was not good.

“Missy,” he nudged her physically as well as mentally. She whimpered in her sleep but did not wake. He struggled to extricate his body from her vice-like grip. Once free of her limbs, he dashed for the en suite and set the tub filling with cold water. He dumped all of the ice from the fridge's freezer into the tub for good measure. Then he rushed back to the bed. She was more on his side than her own, groping mindlessly for her missing partner. Her scent was overwhelming. His body throbbed in response as he became aware that a certain part of his anatomy was waking with a ferocity verging on agony.

He peeled the covers off of her and untied her dressing gown. He eased her upright, pushing the garment off her shoulders and insinuating an arm under her back, then lifted her up out of the bed, adjusting her limp frame in his arms, and turning to carry her to the tub. The en suite lights were harsh after the dark of the Vault, and he grimaced in discomfort, squinting. The tub was less than half full and had to be frigid. He hesitated, then plunged her into the water.

Missy's body instantly went rigid in response, hands grasping, nails scratching at the arms that held her down, half submerged in the still-filling tub. She instinctively bucked and squirmed against his grasp, trying to throw him off of herself. She gasped and sputtered, but still did not wake fully. Her head lolled to the side again, her grip relaxing on his wrists. He could feel her psyche clawing for awareness and failing.

He pulled her up out of the water, easing her up into a sitting position before gently propping her head upright against the slope that cradled her form. She looked so tiny and helpless. He pulled his shirt off over his head, wet it completely, then rolled it up and placed it beneath her nape like a neckroll pillow. Her breath was coming in short whimpers, and she jerked from side to side, hands searching for him. She was starting to shiver, her lips tinged blue-purple.

Ideally, Missy would be awake for this, but her body was dangerously close to overloading, a buzz already starting to build beneath her skin that smelled faintly of Huon particles. The Doctor took Missy's hands in his, clutching her wrists first, his fingertips rubbing her palms, hands grasping rhythmically. She gasped, back arching. He held her fingers to his forehead, continuing his ministrations as he concentrated to slow down time between them, infusing calm into the moment. Her breathing slowed and her eyes flashed open at last.

He lowered their hands to chest height between them, holding her gaze. Their fingers meshed together. He started to rub the heels of her thumbs with his thumbtips, sometimes dipping lower to brush against the twin pulse points on her wrists. He pressed a kiss to the inside of her right wrist, scraped his whiskers against the hypersensitive flesh. Her body tensed, writhing almost as if she were having a seizure, and she came hard. She tried to scream but her voice caught in her throat, her entire body vibrating with the force of with it.

He could almost see her brilliance this time, could sense the light washing over her, the painful need and overwhelming pleasure braiding together, flowing across every atom in her body. He was aware of it but still removed, still an anchor. Her eyes held onto his even as she held onto his hands for dear life. He gazed down at her apologetically. She whimpered, gripping his hands so tightly it hurt. He could taste her terror, metallic like the taste of blood or impending sick, hot in his mouth. Once again, she smelled incredible, they were swimming in her heavy musk.

She yanked suddenly, pulling him half into the tub with her before letting go to press her palms against the smooth porcelain, trying to brace herself in place, sobbing dryly. A series of observations flitted across his mind systematically. She was probably dehydrated, would need to eat and drink again soon. Her nipples were no less rigid against her nightgown than they had been the first time she came, only this time it was from cold, not rapture. His body was screaming at him to run.

“Don't leave,” she demanded, somehow reading his mind despite the fact that they weren't touching. He reached to turn the running water off. She growled, letting go of her prison, flipping herself over beneath him. He pulled back in surprise as she dipped her back and lifted her hips to present herself to him, already ready for the next round. He hadn't seen her like this since her first heat, thousands of years ago. She hated this all consuming need, the loss of decorum and sanity. She grabbed one of his hands and pressed it to the place near the base of her spine where her back met her derriere. He automatically massaged the receptors there, failing to not stare at her body as she rolled her hips beneath his hand. He groaned, trying to get a grip on his instantaneously raging libido.

Her nightgown was transparent, clinging to her body, left little to the imagination. Her waist flared out, not in a pronounced hourglass as one might expect given her predilection for a corset, not as wide as the girl's hips had in his memory. Her calves and thighs were amazing, muscular and toned, her bum pleasingly round, neither too small or too large. Nothing about her appearance was hyper-sexualized, all things were in moderation, but his body and mind liked what he saw very much indeed, lamented the fact that she always insisted on keeping her form so thoroughly covered. Actually, he was relieved that she had yet to try to tempt him in that way; he would have succumbed far more easily than he wanted to admit even to himself.

She gasped beneath him, making noises that went straight to his now painfully aroused cock, squirming and receptive to his ministrations. He swallowed heavily, forcing himself to remain silent and passive. He found his free hand cupping her hip, dangerously close to holding her soft bum as her hips swayed back and forth, movement displaying lithe strength to her advantage. “It's not enough,” she lamented. “Doctor, please,” she whined. “Please, I can't...you have to...”

He climbed into the tub to kneel behind her before she had even finished asking, his legs forming a bridge over her feet. He used the heels of both of his hands against her receptors, the dimples just above and to either side of her crack. She braced herself beneath him, back arching, and he used his body's weight to press down, causing her to squirm and buck beneath him, pushing back into his unrelenting pressure. “Fuck,” she groaned in appreciation. “Like that. Just like that, darling.”

She had stopped shivering. Her skin was like ice beneath his hands but he could sense the heat still burning away inside her. He worked on her back for long minutes, hands kneading relentlessly, careful not to touch her body with anything other than his hands where her body currently wanted him the most. And then suddenly she was writhing beneath him, hips tilting again as she sat back, pressing her bum into his lap, shocking him. She didn't usually require this much stimulation while in the throws of lordosis behavior, let alone even more. The sheer desperation of Missy's behavior was continuing to worry him.

She had always liked to keep things sterile, only let him touch her receptors and very rarely penetrate her from behind, had never initiated such complete contact between their bodies. Yet here she was undulating against his erection, causing him to collapse forward, barely catching himself against the tub before collapsing onto her fully. He daren't hold onto her or press his body against hers reciprocally, his control was tenuous enough as it was.

The Doctor allowed her to control the pressure and movements as she undulated against his cock and thighs. He might have been able to get away with holding her hips if he had more control, but as it was he was holding on for dear life, very close to losing all semblance of control. She rolled her hips, grinding against his lap, moaning wantonly. He groaned in response, once again barely preventing himself from collapsing on top of her as he came spectacularly in his pants. He was only dimly aware that she was coming apart beneath him, hips continuing to move against his rigid form insistently, moaning long and low in a way that he felt deep down inside himself, resonating in his groin in a way that felt fucking fantastic and drew the ecstasy out for an obscene length of time.

It took him far longer than it should have to pull himself back together, to grab her hips and force her to stop causing his cock overwhelming friction. He was not an old man, he was a Time Lord in his prime, but he knew he could not control himself if his little Doctor regained interest right at this moment. And her body still wasn't quite ready for that form of exercise.  He needed to recover his senses quickly:  she would still be keyed up since their minds hadn't been joined, the orgasm would have done little to actually sate her lust save speed her preparation for eventual penetration.

“Sorry,” he choked out. He was mortified that he hadn't lasted longer. He lifted himself from his position bowed over her back.

“Don't be,” she rasped, rolling over to submerge herself in the tub once more, chest still heaving, thighs rubbing together. She whimpered.

“How are you doing?” he asked gently, tentatively brushing the back of his hand across her forehead. It was a familiar gesture meant to test her mental state as much as her temperature. It was a bad idea. Missy's thoughts washed over him in a chaotic flood, images and emotions and words tangled together. _Heaven,_ _warm hand, red grass whispering, Daleks screaming everywhere, milk spreading in tea, his adorable floof, must not touch, lost in blue-grey pity eyes, safety, hold me, pink lips, so wet and hot and aching with emptiness, hell, ..._ her chaotic thoughts screamed at him for an eternity locked into a handful of seconds, dying down to the same distant buzzing sensation that he now realized had been dogging him for the past three weeks.

He was relieved that he didn't have to listen to the cacophonous tug of war of opinions that were currently raging through her even as he regretted contributing to her suffering. Her thoughts were not only close to the surface but reaching for his own thoughts despite her best efforts to shield him from them. Missy jerked beneath him, banging the back of her head against the tub, and he grabbed at her shoulders, careful to hold her at arms' length while stopping her from doing more damage to herself. He had never felt her this raw before. He had thought their first time had been desperate, this was quickly turning into a nightmare for her.

“Kiss me,” she begged. He stiffened in response. Her younger form had hated kissing. It had been against the rules. His current form hated kissing, but the horrible irony was that her new form longed for it. And little did she know that his heart's desire was to deny her nothing. If she had asked for her freedom in this moment he might not have been able to deny her.

He tentatively dipped his mouth down to meet Missy's, hands moving to hold her, pulling her closer to himself, knees bracing them in place. Their lips parted, fit together tentatively...pliant at first. Her tongue ghosted against his, then insinuated itself into his mouth fully when he didn't object. Surprisingly, nothing about the kiss was desperate nor out of control. They relearned the feel of one another's teeth, the pressure of lips and tongue, each others' taste. Missy was gentle but firm with him, in full control of the proceedings, her flavor sharpening even as they kissed, her smell deepening to warm and fertile.

He gradually felt a feral need to impale her with his cock, fill her, breed her. Her mind was bleeding into his own again, that old, familiar, primal _longing_ asserting itself now. He hated this part, the mindless desperation that was terrifyingly close to her breaking point. He broke their kiss, pressing their foreheads together, wrapping his arms around her, clutching her to himself desperately. He could feel the earth spinning, was absolutely certain that they were about to fall off into a spectacular abyss. His eyes were closed but he could feel her mind against his, in his mind's eye he could see her body ripening, full with child, an all consuming need, the spark of a new life, a new mind nestled within her slight frame. It was overwhelming.

“Mistress...” he groaned. Without warning she squirmed below him, coming again, this time with only small whimpers and shudders, thighs pressing together desperately between his own. Missy's mind opened like a flower, possible timelines streaming through them, a roller coaster of emotions and cacophony of colors twisting and turning around them in a stream of possibility. In his mind's eye, he held her in place against the torrential flood, turned them to face it, as the gaseous colors washed over them insistently. He reached out with curiosity and plucked at a thread of possibility, could see a flash of brilliant blue eyes and brown curls here, not one but two more sparks bursting forth in the next bicentennial, diapers and knitting and piloting lessons and equations and....

It slipped through his grasp like the ephemeral force it was. He was holding Missy in her powder room in the Vault beneath a university in Bristol in the UK on Earth. She was clinging to him, squirming in his arms, eyes open and yet unseeing. He eased themselves upright, adjusting his hold on her, enjoying the way her chest heaved and skin flushed brightly. He brushed his nose against a cheekbone, stroking back and forth, breathing in her essence. His cock began to stir in anticipation.

She blinked, coming back down to earth, eyes full of tears. “How long?” he asked.  How far into the possible future had she seen?  How long had the  _longing_ held her in its grasp?

“Don't ask me that,” she whispered. She refused to meet his gaze. “It comes to naught.” She stiffened in his arms and gently pushed him off of herself, laying back in the tub again, pulling her torn nightgown closed at the neck. He eased away from her carefully, averting his own eyes, his eyes inadvertently landing on her body beneath his.

Her thighs had fallen open, sodden fabric clinging to her ever crevice and curve. He could see the muscles in her lower stomach and swollen labia fluttering, still working desperately. “Fuck, it won't stop,” she whined. She bit her lip, arching beneath him in desperation, whimpering and squirming, hands cupping her lower abdomen. His cock jerked, impatient. He didn't have long to wait now, but wait he must.

She lifted herself next, began to climb out of the tub. He could feel her longing inadvertently expressed through the brief press of her hand against his chest. She braced herself against his shoulder as she climbed down from the tub. “I'm going to lose my mind,” she lamented, lifting her hands to her forehead. Her body was still screaming at her for more, every nerve raw. He felt ashamed of how her suffering only fueled his desire.

She shut herself in the shower. He pulled the chained stopper free, releasing the frigid water from the tub, and stood.  His entire body was vibrating in anticipation.  He was torn between following her and allowing her some modicum of privacy. He stripped his trousers and pants off, squeezed the water out of them, and stepped out of the tub to cross the room and drop them into the washing machine that was tucked into the nearby closet. A whimper came from the shower, causing him to freeze in surprise.  His body waited, tensed, as his ears strained to hear each pant and sigh that fell from Missy's lips. Was she touching herself? His body thrilled at the concept, his cock hardening impressively, suddenly at full staff again. She was being very naughty and he was surprisingly okay with that.

His body decided for him.  He strode over to the tiny cubicle, throwing the door open. Missy started and squealed, arms crossing over her now bare chest. She _had_ been touching herself, fingers rubbing between her legs. “Get out,” she hissed, pink with embarrassment.

“I'm freezing, and I'm not letting you shut me out,” he retorted, stepping over her discarded nightgown to force his body into the too-small space. “You know we aren't finished yet.” She retreated before him into the corner at first, eyes locked on his proud cock, then seemed to decide that she wasn't going to let him push her around, practically pushing her breasts into his chest in defiance, which had the pleasing effect of also capturing his erection between their bodies momentarily. She pressed herself against the wall, eyes wild. She was the one who wanted to run now.

He folded his body down into the space in front of her, ignoring the way his knees were screaming at him as he knelt with his face at her apex, lifting his eyebrows. “We could just give your body what it wants, you know,” he told her as he arranged her right leg over his left shoulder. He ghosted his fingertips over her swollen, needy sex, through delicate, barely-there, surprisingly ginger, hair. Auburn, that was the color. She shuddered:

“We have plenty of time yet to rut like animals dear,” she assured him as he pressed a kiss to the junction of thigh and mound. She wasn't quite mentally ready for that eventuality even as her body was already screaming for it.

“That's not what I meant,” he whispered, his mouth millimeters from her folds. His mind was screaming at him to take her roughly, dominate, impregnate. He wondered if he would be able to see his cock nudging her belly from the inside as he pounded into her, then distending as he pumped her full of his cool seed. He nuzzled and kissed at the tender flesh just above her pubic bone, trying to imagine how she would carry once she grew gravid. Missy's hands wrenched his face away from her waist, tearing at his curls.

“You really want to have another go?” she asked, incredulous. Her surprise was palpable. Most Time Lords only had children while in their first or second form, just as they had done. A pair of children to replace a pair of parents, which they had failed to accomplish. Though things had probably changed after the War; wars were wont to cause baby booms, even in Time Lord society. But things hadn't exactly gone well their first time around having a family. Disastrous would be an accurate descriptor. He shrugged:

“If you like. It's not like we're going anywhere for the next thousand years, is it?” He was lying. His mind on the matter was not _exactly_  reliable on the subject at the moment, but he was decidedly _for_ the idea of planting a baby in his wife's belly.

She tsked as he continued teasing her sensitive skin, pressing kisses to her lower stomach first, then lower, lips ghosting across swollen netherlips, teasing, causing her to tremble against him. Her fingers tugged at his hair almost painfully. Her swollen yoni was partially spread, its three folds flaring in an attempt reveal her sex, hot and pink. Her clit jutted insistently towards him, mostly erect but still partially hooded, looking raw and painful. He blew across the leaking pink tip, and it jerked in anticipation. He laved the blunt, round nub, pressing his chin against her lower labellum, nudging. Missy tilted her hips, pressing her clit forward, into his mouth, whimpering as he kissed it, open-mouthed. He worked her foreskin with his tongue, getting it good and wet, easing it back, then sucked earnestly once the tip slid free, stroking her frenulum rhythmically with his tongue. Her clit swelled in response to the stimulation, becoming fully erect. Her size was impressive, lengthening to nearly fill his mouth, about ten centimeters in length he estimated, and notably thick to match. The tip was seeping with her salty nectar, which he lapped at eagerly, hoping to encourage her to express more, sucking hard on her tip again when that didn't work. Missy shuddered, tried to force him to take all of her in, perilously close to the edge.

The Doctor released her clit with a salacious pop and dug his nose into Missy's leaking crevice before licking her from arsehole across labellum up to base of clit. Her hips jerked, and he grabbed them with his hands, holding her in place against the wall as he started to lick at her straining folds, paying special attention to her gradually opening entrance, completely ignoring her clit for now. She let go of his hair just long enough to flick his nose hard:

“Stop fucking around,” she demanded.

“Patience,” he scolded. “As much as I'd like to fuck you until you're cross-eyed _right now,_  I'll wait until your body is good and _ready_.” She whimpered, sagging slightly into his hands as he began to dominate her sex with his mouth. Her yoni fluttered and pulsed, opening even further to him, and he dipped two fingers into her dripping wet heat, testing, watching her as she gradually came undone beneath his ministrations. She whimpered, body still tight and new, unused to the stretch, her entire body tight like a bow ready to be released. He worked his fingers in and out of her sex gingerly, spreading her dripping juices, coaxing her body open further, humming against her labellum as he worked her aching, needy vagina around his digits. When Missy started to rock against his fingers he added a third, stroking her soft inner walls as they fluttered sporadically against the welcome intrusion.

“You're bluffing,” she insisted, trying and failing not to moan, hands lifting to tug at her own hair now. “You'd never let me raise a child, corrupt it.” She moaned louder, quickly forcing herself to suppress the sound. She hated being vocal unless it was for theatrics and since there was not a chance in hell that anyone could hear them she was being as quiet as possible. He took it as a challenge.

Her clit was an angry purple now, standing proudly above her flared sex, looked painfully hard. He blew his warm breath across it. She whimpered and sank further as he insinuated his free hand between her arse and the wall, palm pressed to her receptors as he slipped his lips around her clit and held her in place against his face. He bobbed his head, undulating his tongue, taking her in as deeply as he could. The sounds she made next were inhuman, high and needy and desperate. Her cunt clenched around his fingers, body caught between trying not to collapse against him completely and squirming to keep him at that spot deep inside that she so desperately needed. Her folds spread even further, allowing him to dip his face even closer, mouth opening wide to take her clit as deep in his throat as he could, humming and gagging against the intrusion. He crooked his fingers, pressing insistently against receptors and g-spot simultaneously.

Missy came spectacularly, expletives and moans pouring forth as she squirted and gushed in tandem. He thanked whatever gods that may have existed for respiratory bypasses as he swallowed around her squirting tip, causing his wife's supplications to lose all coherence as her mind came apart.

There were no energy waves or timelines this time. It was like a prolonged explosion of ecstasy and sensation, fireworks skittering across her entire frame, resistance and inhibitions evaporating as she succumbed. Her mind seeped into his like water filling the empty spaces in a jar full of marbles, only his jar was infinite and yet unquestionably safer than the heat-induced black hole that was threatening to rip her psyche apart. She burrowed into the recesses of his mind, pliant and submissive. Time had slowed to an eternity between racing heartbeats, and he held her safe. All fear, remorse, and enmity were forgotten, they were one being, a deep ocean of shared memory and understanding and trust.

She was the first to wake this time, to be pulled away from his mind using claws to try to hold on to the refuge she had found. He winced against the headache she was inflicting upon him, persistent even after she was wrenched away. She was crying when he surfaced, full bodied sobs rocking through her exhausted body. He eased his hand and mouth from her sex, mind registering the loss of time, body rigid as he mindlessly surged upwards to catch her in his arms and impale her on his desperate cock. He froze, still coming back to himself in slow increments. His fingers kneaded at her arse, equal parts soft and firm in his palms. He gradually became aware, as if his mind was somewhere far off and not quite connected, that he was probably bruising her, and relaxed his grip. Her cunt was quivering around his sex, it was too soon for her still. He forced his body not to move, not to take her in a rough and animalistic rut. Her mind was chaotic and fractured and his mind had been infected by her lust-induced haze.

He kissed Missy gently, his mind calling softly, inviting her back in. Her mind flitted closer like a moth to a flame, entranced and bold. He caught her face in his hands as he caught the moth with his mind, building a sparkling golden cage about it. The moth's wing's fluttered against the bars insistently, battering against the restrictive space, desperate to get free. Missy bit his lip hard, he could taste blood. He released her lips but pressed his forehead to hers more insistently, suffusing cool comfort into her raging psyche through sheer force of will. He coaxed her into a shared space of safety.

He could smell rain in the nearby desert on the hot breeze. He could hear the silver leaves rustling, warning that the rain was coming. He could feel the tickle of the long red grasses that hid them, the whisper-soft minds of mice running through their blades to burrow deep against the impending weather. Her hair was soft in his hands as he played with her curls, untucking them from the tall collar of her robes. His first self opened his eyes, eyes twinkling as he took in the sight of his lover.

Sunlight played across her round face. He had been enamored by her first form, its speed and strong, long limbs, but he was bewitched by her new body, freckled and soft beneath him. Her ginger hair matched the shade of the fall grasses almost exactly. Her yellow-green eyes glowed with an inner fire both menacing and arousing. She looked like a cat stretched beneath him, soft abdomen displayed for him to rub. He unwrapped her robes reverently, each layer falling away to reveal not the impossibly-freckled brand-new body he remembered, but delicate-porcelain skin that covered a frame almost boyish rather than voluptuous...until he got to her pert, perfect breasts. He rather preferred her this way, ice blue eyes vulnerable beneath his gaze rather than golden and taunting like a cat that had got the cream.

 _Why here, Doctor?_ she asked with the voice of her second self. She sounded so young.

 _This is how it ought to have been_ , he told her with his mind. _This is the way I wanted it._ He ran his fingers through her auburn-tinged curls, releasing them from the confines of her chignon. Somehow her hair grew dark brown, almost black at the roots, but a lighter redder hue below, though he knew that no one was providing her with products with which to dye her hair. Somehow she _chose_ to grow her hair this color: for him? _Not hurried or rushed but reverently and inquisitively._ He began to kiss his way from her neck down her arm as he extracted it from her robe sensuously and sedately.

 _But I liked the library_ , she breathed. The memory flashed across his awareness, flickering. A dark, warm secluded space, quiet and heavy with the smell of dusty books filled with Gallifreyan history, science, and art. Their mingled moans and groans doing little to muffle the painful collision of their first sexual encounter.

 _I like you wild and unkempt_ , he insisted. _Not caged and restrained_. The irony was not lost on him.

“But I am caged,” Missy sobbed, beating against his chest in the shower.

“I know, I'm sorry,” he soothed, brushing fingertips against her temples. Her lower body undulated against his, and she keened in pain.

“Please let me down,” she begged. “It's too much, I can't...” He lifted her by the hips, uncoupling them and held her to his chest. She was shaking like a leaf or...or a bird. He wasn't sure why that picture stuck in his mind. Maybe it was to go with the layers of cages that they were encompassed by and that she wished to fly free of.

“Missy, may I wash your hair?” She nodded her head in assent, and he set to work first cleansing her locks, but then conditioning. He finger-combed through her curls gently, untangling the knots, massaging the nape of her neck particularly. She shuddered in his arms, feverish, mind still buffeted by her body's demands. The pitch was rising in her again. He turned the cooling water off.

She let him dry her body like a child, shaking with cold or fear or desire, he was not sure which. He continued his ministrations upon her hair as she sat on her pouf, naked as the day she had been born. She seemed subdued and fatigued, was perhaps meditating. Her mind was incredibly fragile at the moment. She reached up to take one of his hands in her own:

“Can you take me to bed?” she asked hesitantly, eyes meeting his in the mirror.

“Of course,” he agreed. He moved to wash the remnants of her hair products from his hands and she wrapped a microfiber towel around her locks. They turned to face one another in the center of the room, met each other halfway with tender, languid kisses. He allowed his hands to roam her back, learning her ribs and spine. He moved to sweep her off her feet but she stopped him with a gentle yet insistent touch:

“No, wait, I need to do something first.” She took his hand and led him into the Vault proper, winding her way through the dark with confidence. She knew every step of this room now, every piece of furniture. She brought him to the red chaise lounge, her fainting couch, and sat him down before her, hands insistent against his shoulders as he lowered himself. “You didn't get the vows quite right,” she told him, settling on her knees at his feet. He felt inexplicably nervous:

“I didn't?” he stammered. She ran her hands over his thighs in the dark, teasing, touch never quite reaching his aching cock. Fuck, she was going to kill him. He could see her body in the moonlight, reflecting beckoningly, but forced himself not to touch her in response. He was curious as to where she was taking this. He tried not to melt into the couch as she continued to caress downwards, towards his sensitive feet, but was failing miserably. Suddenly her hands were wrapped around his left foot in a clear declaration of intent, all movement halted as she waited in the dark. He was so shocked that he froze, valuable seconds ticking through his grasping fingers as she adjusted her position so that he could see her face, eyes shining brilliantly with unshed tears.

“If by my rending, you find relief,” she recited.

“What?” he gasped, but she kept speaking as if he hadn't interrupted:

“I will worship thee 'til break of day. For long have I desired your faith...”

“No, Missy,” he tried to stand up, but she moved to pin him down to the chair, not so much as faltering as she physically held him down.

“...Held indulgent passions hidden at bay,” she swallowed. “Restraint hath given me no relief; Your mind is brighter than the stars above.” He struggled against her grip, eyes caught in her stare, felt helplessly pinned... “I have fallen into your gravity, Cannot escape the hold I belove.” She paused then, bowing her head, breaking their eye contact.

“No, Mistress, please...”

“Consider me servant, yours to master,” she begged, voice breaking, then picking up speed. “I petition, end my torment. Forbid, and I will cease. Banish me, I will fly away. Decree, for I am at your mercy.” She clutched his foot yet more tightly, he could feel her tears dropping onto his knees. “Or if tender compassion move your mind, Allow me to remain a disciple by your side, That I may provide you air and water, My future forever...” her voice caught: “yours to guide.” The silence hung heavy between them, her tear-filled eyes lifting to find his once more in the dark. “I your servant, not your master,” she breathed at last.

Missy let go of his foot and legs, freeing him from the chair. He leapt to his feet, shoving the couch away from himself before falling to his knees before her.

“Why would you do this?” he demanded. She had never made the vow before, the vow was his, he was the one who had let _her_ down. He was the one who had promised to stay with her forever and had run away.

“Because I need you to know...”

“I know, we're not so different,” he finished for her.

“...that I forgive you,” she was sobbing now. “I need you to forgive me, because I can't forgive myself.”

“What?” he didn't understand. He took her hands in his own.

“I broke us,” she sobbed. “I pushed you away in my grief and made you leave.”

“No,” he insisted. “No, Missy, it wasn't your fault. Don't take all this on yourself.” He wrapped his arms around her.

“I became a monster so you would look at me the way I saw myself,” she whispered.

“You did what you had to do to survive,” he assured her, cradling her to his chest. “We both became monsters when...” after all these years, he still couldn't name their loss. “I let you down,” he breathed. “I'm sorry.”

Missy pushed him back roughly, down across the soft rug that lay on the floor, mouth desperate against his. She fell upon him, straddling his lap, rubbing her sex against his straining erection. She cried out in pain, breaking off their kiss far too prematurely for his liking.

“No,” she insisted, pushing him back down. “This is wrong, not this way, I don't deserve...” she turned away to kneel on all fours, to present her flank to him, sex flaring in desperation, sending her scent straight to his already desperate cock.

“Missy,” he groaned. He threw her over his shoulder in a fireman's hold, causing her to shriek in surprise, carrying her to the bed before laying her in the center of it. “I'm not going to last very long,” he apologized, grabbing her hips and nudging forward, her labia fluttering around his member as she squirmed beneath him in desperation. Her lips flared open again and he surged forward, sliding into Missy to the hilt. She rolled her hips as he allowed his hands to roam across her majestic legs for the first time, her sex undulating around his cock, coaxing him even deeper. The Doctor groaned as hips lurched into motion, finding a messy rhythm both frantic and desperate.

Missy rose and fell beneath him, humming in satisfaction as her half-aroused clit bumped against his stomach repeatedly, leaving wet kisses against his skin, driving her mad. He wrapped one of his hands around her clit, gradually drawing whimpers out of her against her will. Her frenzy from earlier was sated, the fire was burning _in him_ this time. He gradually increased his pace, fingers finding her hips again, almost slamming their bodies together as he pistoned his cock into her spasming sex. _Fuck_ but she was tight around him. He watched himself impaling her, both outside and inside, his cock's tip knocking at the door to her womb and bouncing outward inside her soft stomach.

She wasn't perfectly thin and taut as he has assumed, no, she had a small roll of fat around her middle that jiggled tantalizingly with each majestic poke of his cock. He could feel his balls tightening in anticipation, strokes turning shallow as he tried to hit her where it counted, desperate for permission to find release. “Mistress,” he begged.

She took his face in her hands, running her fingers through his hair, caressing his forehead and temples, before lightly scratching at the nape of his neck, hand playing with his hair as she tangled her fingers together at the back of his neck. She threw her head back, voice possessive as she commanded:

“Come, Doctor.”

He came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You're probably wondering where Missy's genitalia came from if not her behavior. I have long been waiting to frame some Time Lord sexy times around [spotted hyena reproduction](https://www.livescience.com/699-painful-realities-hyena-sex.html) ever since I read that the females are in charge and have a pseudo-penis that her partner inserts his penis into and that she births through. The trouble is that it seems just a little too painful and awkward to be any kind of fun sexy time and would only lead to extremely painful labor times that would endanger any Time Lady's life. Which might make sense in a species that lives so long, actually, but just did not feel right for this.
> 
> So I almost chickened out and made this vanilla human sex sprinkled with some hyena and cat behaviors. But part of this is that I've long wondered if Time Lords could possibly have both sex organs at one time (we basically do), and didn't really want to entirely give that girl penis idea up, so I have instead gifted Missy with external genitalia inspired by orchids, a flower that does possess both male and female genitalia simultaneously. So if you're trying to picture Missy's lady bits in your head you needn't look farther than a picture of an orchid (see below), the center of which features [a petal called a labellum](http://s.hswstatic.com/gif/how-orchids-work-nologo.png) (alien labia surrounding and usually covering the entrance to time lady vagina) and a prominent pistil where human women have a clit. If that makes any kind of sense. xD
> 
> I know, i have a sick mind. I hope i didn't squick anyone out too badly.
> 
> ETA: an example [by @metal_magazine](https://www.instagram.com/p/BQDJEHgh8fd/)  
>   
> found at [f*ck yeah yonic symbols](http://fuckyeahyonicsymbols.tumblr.com/post/170845206618/elphies-glinda-spi-ltmilk)


	4. Early Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: And the insanity continues. More lemons and the addition of menstrual sex.
> 
>  

Missy rose and fell beneath him, humming in satisfaction as her half-aroused clit bumped against the Doctor's taut stomach repeatedly, driving her mad with desire. He wrapped one of his hands around her clit, gradually drawing whimpers out of her against her will, as he reverently brought her body to new heights.  It wasn't enough.  She ardently hoped that the Doctor wasn't wanting to make love to her at this point, she wasn't sure she could bear it if he had. Her body was raw and aching and desperately _needing_ and the last thing she needed was him being sentimental right now.

But this...he wasn't being gentle. His motions were steadily turning frantic.  He was mindless and desperate and falling towards crazed. His mind was coming apart, burning for her, lust compelling him to ensure their bodies instinctual imperative reached completion. Her body's hormones were signaling her receptivity, her fertility was chemically seducing him and the asexual higher being that he usually was had been completely overwritten.  He was beautiful in those moments. His lust was staggering as he succumbed to anoesis, roughly fucking her into her bed. Everything hurt, everything was screaming in ecstasy, as she struggled to withstand the force of his fervor, guiding his motions as best she could while he was doing his damnedest to make her fall apart beneath him as soon as possible.

The sheer magnitude of his loss of restraint was terrifying yet exciting. His mind was just as insistent in her mind as his cock was in her cunt.  She knew she didn't have the figure of River Song or Marilyn Monroe. What she lacked in curves and softness she made up for through sheer force of will. Alas, her attempts at seduction had all fallen on deaf eyes in the past when it came to her Doctor, yet now here he was, unhinged because of her _body,_ of all things.  Her naked flesh was making him come undone.

It didn't compute. It annoyed her. She hated it. And yet simultaneously she felt absolutely sexy and fired up and utterly possessed as he rutted into her, getting off on watching her body respond to him, blatantly fantasizing about filling her with his seed, his offspring. He was completely satisfied with all of this body's frugal charms and the absolute delight he took in just _looking at her_ astonished and aroused and empowered her in ways that she had never felt before.

Oddly, some distant rational part of him was afraid that he was going to come before her, and here she was trying her hardest _not to_  let her body come because she was intoxicated with the way that he was worshiping her. But he was at her mercy, some part of him still refused to seed her without her permission even as his psyche was begging for it along with every atom of his being.

Sadist that she was, she wasn't quite ready to let this torture end. She reached out to him, fingertips gentle against his face in extreme juxtaposition of how driven his thrusts were become. His body was cool against hers but his mind was a hot mess. All of his shields and the well-ordered organization in disrepair, all he knew was this burning need. And all of it was her fault.  She took pity on him.

“Come, Doctor,” the Mistress commanded. His pelvis crashed against hers with yet more force as he gave one last thrust harder, higher, deeper.  He groaned as his body obeyed, squirted repeatedly in long streams, flooding her aching cunt, pumping cool fluid deep inside her that penetrated her battered cervix easily and instantaneously provided desperately-needed relief. She could simultaneously feel the Doctor's orgasm as well as her own.  She couldn't help but give in and follow him over that edge. Her muscles milked him for all he was worth, seizing up on his turgid staff. He stilled as their bodies became locked together, cock still impressively hard and pulsing rhythmically inside of her engorged yoni.  His hips continued to jerk and rock against her a long minute more.

She whimpered. His seed was cool against her feverishness and seemed to wash into her very veins.  It gradually spread and filled her from apex to crown, hips to toes. For the first time in hours she actually felt her fever not just break but flee. She shivered as her body banished the heat and embraced his gift. Her orgasm faded in stages, from a mind blowing gripping that scared her in its intensity, to rhythmic clenches, all the way down to persistent yet artless spasming. She scratched at his nape and shoulders mindlessly, still not completely sated.

She forced herself to open her eyes, to try to ground herself to him, but found his eyes on her body. His body was braced above her, taut and still, glistening with sweat in the scattered moonlight. The air felt electric between them as goosepimples erupted across her entire body.  Her nipples were painfully rigid, her toes still curling, pulse fluttering madly.  The Doctor's still-erect little (scratch that, huge) Time Lord was still decidedly locked within her comparatively slight passage. His pulse was pounding against her walls, was turning her on _more_ rather than letting her actually rest. How long they would remain coupled was impossible to predict and was scaring her. How long would this moment between them last? His eyes finally met hers in the dark, and she felt her muscles relax around his cock infinitesimally.

And then his hips were undulating against hers again, gently, ever so carefully. She instinctually rolled her hips with him, helpless to resist, whimpering with each nudge and press. Her legs came up to cradle him between her thighs, opening wider to somehow take him even deeper still, his tip sliding against, then past, her cervix. She moaned, the intense pleasure rolling through her as his hips pulsed gently, rocking minutely out of and back into this new fraction of space, nudging carefully against the entrance to her womb. She squirmed beneath him, petrified of this intensity, desperate for it all to end, for sweet unconsciousness to embrace her.

And then he started caressing her clit, cool hand wrapping around her rigid heat. She jerked in his grip, sensation flicking across her vision. He cupped the errant little Time Lady and continued to dance with her patiently. The muscles in his stomach rippled with his efforts. She couldn't take it anymore and came apart in his hand, spraying his chest, her breasts, and somehow even her face, howling at the intensity. He shuddered, grinning maniacally as he ejaculated once more, even more majestically than before. Their minds exploded in unison as well, a rainbow of colors, a tidal wave of emotions, nebulae expanding.

She could feel every flutter and throb of his dick as _he_ washed over her inside and out.  His hips forced her hips to tilt even more, more seed pouring into her womb. They were mostly mindless now, him more than her. She did want him to breed her, wanted it with an all consuming intensity that terrified her, was now watching possible timelines unfold before her mind's eye with intricate clarity, eternity wrapped in an instant. She tried to ignore the bright promise of the future, all of its lies, and focus on how each pump of his cock was stuffing her fuller and fuller with his coveted seed. Her womb cramped sharply against the intrusion, then expanded further to make space for the torrent of space spunk.

Missy grabbed at the Doctor's wrist, forcing him to release her clit before scrabbling to clutch at her stretching lower abdomen. Everything was alive down there, fluttering and full with a tight pressure that caused her heart to pound as she gasped for air. Her heels hooked around his hips, inadvertently pressing against the pressure points on his back. The Doctor's arms finally gave out as he came _yet again_ , clinging to her as if for dear life, more sensation exploding behind his eyes. Missy squealed at the force of it, abdomen clenching as more seed was forced into her slight torso, pressing up against her belly button now. She desperately needed to come, couldn't stop herself from falling over the edge yet again. She screamed, clutching at her lover, mindlessly scratching, everything cold and painful and overwhelming. Their minds turned off synchronously.

 

 

Everything hurt. Everything was wet. She felt numb inside. Her uterus was clenching, rebelling. She felt wet everywhere, but nowhere more than between her legs. The bed was soaked through with their combined juices dribbling beneath her arse, stank of their debauchery. The sunlight was blinding, she clenched her eyes against it. Her hands reached out to find the Doctor, she could feel him hovering somewhere not far off, yet too far away for her tender psyche. He caught one of her hands in one of his own. She shivered spectacularly as his compassion bled across to her mind. His mouth was whisper soft on first her wrist, then her tender belly, spreading gentle kisses across her bloated flesh. She let out a hollow sob.

“It's all over now,” he assured her, easing a hot water bottle onto her cramping abdomen. Little did he know that this agony was just as bad if not worse than what had come before.  She squirmed, rebelling against the heat, but was forced to surrender to it. She lowered her free hand to cup her sex, hissed in pain. It came away covered with a cocktail of blood, clear discharge, and opalescent cum. She was not pregnant, would not bear a child for him. She had known it would end this way. She could feel the shame of her failure weighing down on her chest.  She wasn't sure where the tears came from, how she had any left to give, but they were hot in her ears now, dripping into her hair. “We can try again if you like," the Doctor assured her.

She flipped him over then, pinning him with a ferocity that startled even herself. She pawed at his penis, forcing it to a half-hearted attention. “Not now, Missy,” his voice broke. “It's too late just now.” She held him down as she kissed him forcefully. He went pliant beneath her.

“Please,” she begged against his mouth. “Please,” she begged, lips wrapping around his cock. His hands remained quiescent as she worked his length. She wished that he would grab her by the hair and pull until it hurt, either halt or guide her mouth's frenzied motions. His cock woke easily, was soon throbbing against her tongue and threatening to choke her when his hips jerked against his own wishes. Her mouth came free with a pop when his fingertips brushed against her right temple ever so slightly.

“Please stop,” he begged. “I can't take any more.” The heat had left him, and she knew she was in danger of pushing him too far.

“I'm sorry.” She pressed her face to his hands, forcing him to hold her face. “I've never told you how this feels, never pressed you.” She guided him through her memories of each of their failed couplings over centuries, letting her urges wash over him. “But I'm _still_ burning, and I don't think I can do this alone this time. My body _always_ refuses to let go, still thinks there's a chance, perhaps. I'm sorry, my beloved, but please, _please_....”

He pulled her mouth up to his, and their mouths clashed painfully, fiercely. He flipped them over as one, rolling her onto a blessedly dry patch of the mattress. His fingers coaxed her clenching yoni open, gently yet forcibly opening her swollen labellum. He impaled her slowly, centimeter by aching centimeter. Despite her drenched state it stung dreadfully. They were both swollen and sore. They trembled in each others' arms, gasping for air. They started moving in unison. Their minds didn't even have to reach for one another. They were already one.

He made love to her slowly, their movements soon fading into a pleasant wave of reciprocity. Their movements weren't frenzied or careless, but tender and giving. She cradled him in her arms, kissing languidly, providing and accepting the push and pull of their conjoined body and mind. This was his favorite kind of sex, and she saw the appeal in this moment. No chaos or fire to titillate, no adrenaline or power struggle. “We should do this more often,” she gasped, digging her heels into his receptors as he drove her to new heights of ecstasy.

They came together, their well-ordered minds flowing together reciprocally, the fever in her _finally_ sated. He collapsed against her, tucking his face against her throat. She clutched at him, hands learning his body as he caught his breath, not letting him roll away from her. His mind was a thing entirely separate from her own suddenly.  He built a wall against her mind systematically, strengthening brick by brick. She didn't need him anymore, not that way, so he was closing her back out. Fresh tears came to her eyes. The silence was both deafening and frightening.  How quickly she had grown used to the caress of his mind against her own.

He rolled away from her, and she let him. He lay the water bottle over her pulsing womb again, careful not to actually touch her. He ran his fingers through his filthy hair. He looked completely undone and exhausted. His back was peppered with gouges and scratches from where she had clutched at him for purchase while enthralled by her ecstasy. She watched his naked form retreating to the en suite.

 

 

He didn't leave her throughout the hellish sixty-four hours that followed, but he did become cold to her. Perhaps she _had_ pushed him too far. Perhaps it had all been just the pheromones that drove him so willingly into her arms. Perhaps he saw it all as a rape on her part or was relieved that her body was dutifully expelling the seed that hadn't taken root, the lining that was no longer needed to nourish a new life.  She could easily imagine him hating her as much as she hated herself.

It was her worst cycle in living memory, and that was saying a lot. The migraines were back with a new fury for the first forty-eight hours. He gave her clinical, detached massages.  He read to her in soothing tones as she sat curled in her chair, clutching at her aching body. He fed her regularly, did all of the cleaning up when her stomach rebelled against the pain of too much stimulus.  He wasn't repelled by the inevitable leakage that happened when she actually managed to find a few hours of unconscious respite in their bed.  He was there and yet he was a stranger to her.

He even sat on her pouf, knees angled comically as he read to her in the bath when she took refuge in the hot water after the shame became too much. Why did her body rebel against her like this? She wasn't a child, her choosing to splash the Doctor mid-sentence not withstanding. He hadn't even reacted, just wiped the water away, not even pausing mid-sentence or even looking up from the words. For all of the patient attention he gave her, she might as well not even have existed.

She let the depression and misery wash over her as she submerged herself into the pink-tinged water. She deserved it.

 

 

She sat naked in her chesterfield chair, cocooned in her new afghan, knees pulled up to her chest, staring into nothing, as he warmed up their next meal. She nursed her tea, grimacing. They both tended to prefer black tea, but she had opted for an herbal blend over the past couple of days. It helped soothe human women's cramps supposedly, she couldn't tell that it was helping her. He was before her suddenly, setting her mostly empty cup aside and replacing it with a plate that held tamallis and arroz con leche. One of her requests from her embarrassing letter.

“Thank you,” she murmured. She grabbed his hand, squeezing for just an instant before letting go. He didn't squeeze back, but he didn't pull away either. She set her plate on her knees and set to unwrapping the husks, revealing the tender masa inside. He sat in his own chair, systematically devouring his own meal, ostensibly dwelling on his own thoughts. Her mind was still stuck on their desires over the past few days. Not the sex, but the bone deep desire to procreate.

Her mind started systematically shuffling through the pros and cons of starting another family with the Doctor. Besides her self-hatred, she really didn't see many cons, to be honest. There were many factors, but somehow she could only label all of them as pros or tolerable annoyances. She missed caring for a little one, she missed teaching, answering the millions of questions their inquisitive and quick minds latched onto. She was even missing changing diapers at midnight followed by feedings and snuggles with a pathetically desperate intensity at the moment.

Time Lord genetics were completely irrational, the way they slapped you about and forced you to guarantee the survival of the species. _If_ she had a child with the Doctor, they would possibly decide to have one or two more to round things out. She would never crave sex like a pitiful junkie ever again, not like this. She wasn't even sure if her body would remember having brought life into the universe once upon a time. Would one child be enough to kill this gnawing, torturous desire?

Her cycles would theoretically become manageable, an equilibrium that she regrettably had never been able to achieve. Surely her body was not actually broken and would adjust. Their species was hardwired to maintain the ratio at 2.75 descendants per couple, there were no ridiculous "birthers" in their society, though a part of her wondered if that restraint was in truth customary and an intellectual choice. What would it be like for her body not to beg her for more children once every twenty-seven years?

Which left the question of the Doctor. He would most likely never trust her to raise a child. She didn't mind him wanting to remain involved in the raising of their daughter, but she couldn't bear the thought of him taking a child away from her.

“I should have regenerated,” she tried to convince herself. Death would, in fact, be easier, less messy.  A male body would not have these issues at all.

“Regenerated?” he nearly dropped his plate in surprise. “Why?”

“It would be easier if I were a man,” she pronounced coldly. “We could completely ignore our urges, we wouldn't even need to be friends, really. You could just visit me periodically to make sure I haven't torn everything to shit.” She made herself stop talking before she revealed the full extent of her self-loathing.

“You wouldn't have to let it thrive if you don't want to,” he reminded her gently. A Time Lady could hold an embryo in stasis indefinitely, after all, or choose to trigger spontaneous miscarriage. “Your body will thank you for it.” And suddenly she  _knew_ , instinctively, what he didn't want her to know, why he was being so distant.  He wanted a child just as much as she did. “Is that what you want?” he asked. He almost sounded scared. 

“No,” she couldn't help but confess, words pouring out of her: “I still want you, I still need you. I can hardly breathe for the pain of wanting a babe in my belly, in my arms, in my lap...” she turned her face away from him so he couldn't see the tears in her eyes.

“You too?” he asked so softly that she wasn't sure she had heard him properly at first. Their eyes met.

“Yes,” she breathed. He broke their connection first.

“We were horrible parents,” he retorted with a half laugh, grabbing another tamalli from the dish he'd warmed them on.

“You were a terrific dad,” she objected. “I was the one...” her voice broke. He grabbed her hand, which had the unintended consequence of smearing tamalli filling across her skin.

“Don't talk like that,” he commanded her gently. “Neither of us were to blame, we were just a couple of kids mucking about. And it was more fun than anything we had ever done together...and more heartbreaking.” Missy started sobbing quietly, hiding her face in her hands. He set his plate aside, licking his fingers, and climbed into her chair with her, somehow pulling her into his lap.

He wrapped his arms around her: “I'd do it again in a heartbeat,” he assured her.

“You trust me,” she marveled in disbelief, tucking herself against him.

“I don't know,” he confessed. “But we have time to figure it out.”


	5. Therapy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time passes slowly in the Vault. Contemplations and lemons.
> 
>  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no valid excuses as to why this took so long for me to get this out. RL happened, certainly. I'm sorry for the wait.

The days and weeks ran together. Nardole brought her food and books and cleaned. Missy made sure that her face was on every day, sat and drank tea, and stared into nothing, meditating, systematically reorganizing her thoughts and memories. Once a week the Doctor would come and quiz her on the nonfiction that Nardole had dispatched. She guessed that day was Friday, because of the energy he usually had that evening. His relief tasted like another week was over and the weekend was ahead tinged with the tension of having marking to get through before he could really enjoy himself.

But she had no real way of knowing the day of the week in Earth's relative time, since she had been placed in the Vault after decades of exile and imprisonment across multiple time zones and never actually set foot upon Earth this visit. She could measure the minutes and hours, count the days and years, but had no point of reference from which to count from. And she supposed that maybe that excitement and nervousness was just the energy he had around her now, eager but nervous, uncertain where their temporary intimacy now left their relationship.

“Have you read them?” he would always ask about the books over tea and ice cream or mousse or tiramisu.

“Yes,” they were incredibly droll and limited but she read them. She had read most of them before, albeit hundreds of years ago. It was important to be intimately familiar with the beliefs and customs of any people one sought to overthrow and/or rule. Reminding herself of the contents of these books actually gave her ongoing project of the systematic reorganization of her mind some focus, she did admit.

“What did you think?”

“Delightfully violent compared to the Bible, but not as bloodthirsty as....”

“What did you feel?” he interrupted. His right eye twitched just a moment in irritation. He didn't want her to paint a picture of violence despite the contents of the myths he had assigned her.

“The energy theories were compelling,” she pronounced. “Flawed, of course...”

“I said _feel_.”

“Bored,” she lied.

“ _The Bhagavad Gita_?”

“Boring,” she singsonged. He swore under his breath:

“Every week,” he pronounced. She wasn't sure if he was talking to her or himself. “Why do I even try? You said that you wanted me to teach you....”

“'This is the sum of duty; do naught onto others what you would not have them do unto you,'” she quoted. He always asked her what the common thread was last of all. All of these texts were similar, espoused being selfless and dying for others, featured gods that threatened destruction to those who did not submit. A part of her would like to meet these gods and show them what destruction really was.

But she had promised to be good, to try. “Really, Doctor, do you think I've learned nothing during my time on Earth? I've lived here longer than you have, actually taken the slow route for most of it. I inspired a lot of this...” she picked up one of the books for a moment, tossed it aside thoughtlessly. He retrieved the tome from the floor, inspecting it for any damage. He looked furious but did not rise to her bait. He picked up each of the books that his weekend had been designed around and turned to leave. Her heart tightened for but an instant in regret before she went back to her project.

 

 

The years in the Nethersphere had bled together, too. Thousands of years meeting little humans and ushering them into a world beyond their wildest imaginings before wiping away their every emotion. Sorrow. Fear. Joy. No one cried in the Nethersphere, no one bled, no one felt much of anything at all after the initial burst of denial and panic followed by centuries of willingly obtained monotony. Those first few hours were hilarious, though, had been the bright spot of her life at the time really, to see the way they railed against the finality of it all, or how they struggled to connect the sterile modern environment with the teachings they had been brought up with before finally conceding.

She hoped she had been able to bring them comfort. Her Cyberdears hadn't been touched by the regrets of the past or the boredom of normal existence or the thrill of destruction. They were free of such tortures. They waited as long as she did and thought nothing of it. Their troubles were over. Perfectly obedient with all the potential treachery of Cybermen strictly programmed out of them.

This waiting in the quantum fold chamber, or Vault as the Doctor had taken to calling it, was easier than it had been either on Skaro or at the Fatality Index. Five or six days spent alone (Nardole hardly counted) in exchange for a night or even a weekend with the Doctor, exchanging ideas, debating. One could hardly call it solitary confinement, even without cellmates.

She had never done well with cellmates anyway.

And she honestly couldn't remember the last time she had warranted so much of the Doctor's attention, little that he gave her. Before he had run away from Gallifrey, certainly. And since she had promised to be good she almost didn't know what to do with herself. Well, she certainly wasn't going to become a wilting flower and fold under _all_ the insinuations of his attempt at educating her. She was still allowed to have her own opinions, she'd asked him to teach her, not brainwash her. But she rather felt that he was doing a horrible job of it, that he was becoming frustrated by her continued reticence to see his point of view. It was almost as if his heart wasn't in it. Which bothered her more than she wanted to admit to herself.

She had been ingenuous in her petition. She wanted to know how to follow his teachings even as she found them ridiculous. And she found it hard not to be resistant, even afraid in a way. She didn't always know what would be a step too far with him, what would she do next to inadvertently push him away? He had abandoned her to the darkest fate that she could imagine, forced into confinement, a life surrounded by aliens who hated her with every fiber of their beings. But it had been worse than their hatred, or the fact that there were no beds and only one chair, or even being below the notice of Davros. Skaro and the Time War had long been the primary source of her nightmares, and she had been suddenly forced to live them anew, forced to seek a way of being useful to the Daleks rather than expendable. So she had spent years searching for better ways of sustaining the lives of the Daleks, to the point of almost gifting them with regeneration. They had tortured her in attempts to study and understand her own healing capabilities, pushed her to the brink time and again. There were no physical scars to hide but the emotional ones remained.

She would have done anything to get away from the Daleks and Skaro, had escaped the city multiple times...but had no way of getting off the planet. They kept her far from their shipyards. It hadn't mattered if she tried to sneak into one of their ships or hid in one of the planet's many caverns, they always found her eventually. The longest she had remained free had nearly bought her a new face, a winter so cold and lifeless (nothing to burn, nothing to eat) that she had turned herself in at last for fear of dying of hunger.

And then there had been the prison of the Fatality Index. She had been well fed and her cell had been luxurious compared to Skaro. A proper bed and a toilet! But their forcefields kept in more than her body, they kept her mind in as well. _That_ had been isolation. As lobotomized as the minds in the Nethersphere had been they had still been alive and real even in cyberspace. In her cell there had been utter silence, not even so much as a rat or cockroach for her to sense. Her mind had rebelled against it, scratching at the cracks, raging against the overwhelming nothing, until she had lost all control. The guards that had been sent to escort her to her trial had been driven comatose against the assault of her mind against their own. The monster had taken complete control of her after weeks or months of being cared for only by robots, she knew not for how long. She could keep time indefinitely without a clock but not when she had gone completely insane.

They had finally given her something to dull that part of her brain just so she could sit up in the courtroom and listen—gagged--as they brought evidence before a panel of judges. She was not allowed to speak in her own defense. She had no representative, no one who cared to hear her side of the story. She wasn't even aware of what was going on for the first few days, until her mind finally repaired itself and latched onto the minds of those around her despite the extreme dulling of her senses and abilities. Their mundane thoughts and horror at the accounts of what she was accused of were what she gradually came back to. She felt their disgust as her own, their empathy for the victims was all she knew. Self-loathing had long been something that she had been familiar with but to feel people's fear and hatred heaped upon her, magnified, to be powerless to shut it out....

That was what had given her the doubt. Perhaps the Doctor had the right of it, perhaps there was something to being “good” and kind. She knew that he felt guilt and self-loathing just as she did, the difference between them was what they had chosen to do with it. She had reveled in it, while he had sought to redeem himself. It was foolish of him, of course, and she knew that he wasn't always right, he still made mistakes, but still.... Out of sheer desperation, she was forced to conclude that perhaps his forgiveness and impetus to rescue people was superior to her wanton destruction and desperate attempts at mere survival.

She had been ready to die at the end. She hadn't let her captors see that, she still had _some_ self-respect, but she wasn't stupid. The trial was a mere formality. She had been dead as soon as they had found her, and the worst of it was that they hadn't been looking for her at all. They had been looking for Davros and he had scarpered. They hadn't even known who she was until she told them. That was the only reason her captivity had been so extended from what she could tell, they hadn't already built a case before arresting her. She had been forced to wait for the barrister to research her. She was sure of the verdict well before it was delivered unanimously.

After that, all she had needed to wait for was the executioner. They kept her drugged up and watched her day and night to ensure that she didn't try to kill herself before they could do the deed themselves. Or so she had assumed, as it turned out they refused to get their hands dirty with her, the filthy hypocrites. She had waited for weeks in the stone castle on the water. It had been musty, humid, and the cold had seeped into her bones. The guards' minds had been bored, they didn't know the details of her trial and she wasn't the most terrifying of prisoners in their estimation. She didn't have the heart to disabuse them of the assumption.

She never felt the minds of the engineers who had designed her personal guillotine, or the technicians who installed it, that had all been in place before her arrival. The administrator had been smug and self-satisfied, but at last one day a mind brighter than a thousand suns came with him, a beacon in her long nightmare. She could feel him coming from miles away, floating towards her. Her executioner.

Her dress was creased, aged, and fit poorly after years of malnutrition, but there wasn't anything she could do for it. She demanded to be able to improve her appearance. Her sudden fervor startled the men who had hardly given her notice up until then. But there was precedence, they allowed, and so she was allowed to straighten and pin up her hair in front of them. She had to hurry to do her face, and wasn't allowed her own cosmetics, so she felt ridiculous, but it was something. She stood up straight and pushed back her shoulders and the entire atmosphere of the room changed. Her guards finally believed that she was dangerous.

Even years later, just being able to feel the Doctor's mostly-shielded subconscious mind brush against her own as he worked meters above her in his office was ecstasy. At her execution it had given her hope. Nothing in his face had. He hadn't smiled or shown any recognition or sympathy. But he did know her. They had history together. He was her friend, just as she was his, and she acted with as much dignity as she could muster. She hadn't been certain that he would let her live, but she had been certain that she was finally willing to try things his way.

The emotions that bled through while he played his guitar each night before turning in drove her to tears but she didn't resent them. Any prison was bearable while she could feel other minds whispering against her own. She knew that Clara was no longer with him and didn't have the heart to ask him if the girl'd left of her own free will or been lost to less pleasant circumstances.  It hurt the Doctor terribly either way, she had sensed it on him immediately, before being escorted from her stone shack even. Her only comfort was the knowledge that he had already been in pain when he came to her as executioner, though she suspected that was just as much about River as it was about Clara. For once in their lives she wasn't the cause of his suffering.

And so she gradually put her mind back together piece by piece as the years crept by. The joy and angst and focus and nervousness of youth passed around her day by day, surrounding her even as she wasn't allowed to properly touch or experience it. She could have reached out to any of those minds, easily after they became familiar from visiting the same office or bench above her repeatedly over the course of months. She could have plotted or escaped. But where would she go?

 

 

It was still early morning but Nardole was already leaving. Missy kept things tidy on her own as much as possible, she didn't need the eggy one hovering. He still didn't trust her and likely never would. As soon as the hatch closed and the forcefield deactivated she started to unbutton her blouse. The Doctor didn't let her wear her jacket anymore, its buttons had been classified as dangerous tools now, though to put them in the same category as her brooch was laughable. Her new blouse had plastic buttons that were far more generic and typical of Earth's current period. She slipped out of her skirt and petticoats easily, the corset only took a bit of fiddling, the boots and stockings were the biggest hassle of them all, but she managed it without needing to sit down. She soon was clad only in camisole and drawers, goosepimples breaking out across her arms. The nights were starting to run cooler again but the Doctor had yet to return the space heaters to the room for the winter.

Missy stepped across the dais barefoot, towards the Turkish carpet she had dragged before the windows for this very purpose, and she kneaded the stiff wool with her toes. She started with Sun Salutation, breathing deeply and smoothly, feeling Time flow around her. She had recovered all of her lost flexibility now, had even started moving on to some more difficult poses. She started out gradually, with the Tree, variations on the Warrior, and then the Half Moon. She reached out with her mind, tasting the air outside vicariously, how crisp the leaves were that were just starting to fall, the brush of minds against her own as people rushed to their next class. She could almost see it in her mind's eye, had long since built an imaginary map of the campus around her based on the way people moved above ground.

She was just settling into the Eagle when she heard a noise at the Vault's door. It startled her so much that she almost lost her balance, but she righted herself and concentrated on the mind on the other side of the door. It was the Doctor, his mind carefully closed to her. She briefly considered dashing for the en suite to dress, but she supposed that she didn't care if the Doctor saw her this way. He was encroaching upon her personal time, he could bloody well wait for her to finish. She untwisted her body and retwisted it the other direction. The Vault's door opened.

The Doctor was carrying a substantial stack of books and papers, didn't even glance in Missy's direction until he had set them on the nearest coffee table, and when he saw her he froze. She untwisted herself from the Eagle and seamlessly moved into the Standing Bow, pulling her right foot until it was nearly above her head. She was small and short limbed but she was flexible. She breathed deeply, and the Doctor's gaze fell to her barely-covered breasts, his cheeks instantly tinged with pink. He grabbed at the stack of essays that he had just set down, clearly flustered, and muttered an apology, promising to return later. He was halfway back to the Vault's hatch when he dropped the loose documents, the pages flying everywhere.

Missy sighed and released and lowered her foot before strolling across the room to help him retrieve the work. Surely the fool could purchase some folders or even a briefcase to safely transport such things inside. She crawled from page to page with ease, sliding closer towards him, trying to make sense of the mess and rearrange it properly. Suddenly the Doctor's lips were on her own, insistent, empty hands gripping her waist. She held the pages she had retrieved up out of the way but melted against his chest, pressing against him from knee to breast. He pulled away just as abruptly, ineffectively trying to disentangle himself from her now encircling limbs:

“I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me,” he breathed. “I didn't mean to do that.” And he was kissing her again, desperately, burgeoning erection pressing into her soft belly impressively, one of his thighs asserting its way between her own. She dropped the essays, fingers tearing at his tie, loosening it just enough to pull over his head and discard it. “We shouldn't,” he gasped. Missy began working on his buttons.

“Is that what you want or what you think you should say?” she murmured against his mouth, hips undulating against his.

“I'm angry with you,” he told her matter of factly, pulling away just enough to open his belt and fly. His cock sprang free and she grasped it, stroking it to a full erection with surprisingly little encouragement. It was reassuring that he was attracted to her even without the overwhelming allure of her hormones during her heat. His own hand was pressing through the slit between her split drawers, past her fluttering lips and testing her receptivity. His fingers pressed into her insistently, possessing her. She couldn't stop herself from thrusting her hips forward in response, eager to take him in deeper. She whimpered at the loss when he pulled his fingers free, wrapping them around her clit instead, digits damp with her juices. “How long have you been wearing these crotchless drawers right in front of me?” he demanded pumping her just as she was pumping him, slow and firm and in sync. She grinned at him, eyes flashing:

“Since you called me out of the shadows and I had my way with you against that sepulcher window,” she pronounced. Her nether lips flared open in anticipation as he lifted her in one smooth motion, impaling her. She hissed at the suddenness, wrapping her legs around his waist. She was still so tight and he was more than adequate. He lurched to his feet, stumbling to the nearest wall, and shoved her against it, thrusting into her slowly but firmly. He braced his arms on either side of her head, leaving her to cling to him for purchase, and stared into her eyes as he pounded into her.

He was being far from gentle, which to be honest didn't bother her. She was glad that he had missed the hatch of the Vault, as that would have been incredibly painful compared to the stone wall he currently had her against. Her hips met his thrust for thrust, their eyes daring the other to look away first. “You like it,” she pronounced over the sounds of his body crashing into and against her own. “The thought of me sans brassiere and knickers as I hitchhike across time and space drives you wild...” she dragged her fingertips up across her chest before grasping her camisole straps and sliding them down her shoulders, allowing the fabric to fall free from her breasts. He watched every moment of it.

She loved winning. “Kiss them,” she beckoned, cupping the mounds gently, fingertips brushing against the little nubs of her nipples in time with the rhythm he had set. The Doctor's cock jerked in response, his hips crashing forcefully against her own as he came spectacularly, knot expanding not to its full size but enough to loosely lock them together. He tucked his face against her throat, groaning as his brain overloaded and his entire frame vibrated. Missy took pity on him and held him, impressed that he had managed to keep them upright. It took him a couple of minutes to regain his composure, to resume nudging inside her gently.

She knew what had driven him over the edge. Time Lord sex did not include breast stimulation, it was considered to be taboo, but they both knew it was a larger part of the Humans sex act. He had always been attracted to the idea, driven by a curiosity that she didn't quite understand and had never indulged. And here she was inviting him to touch, nay commanding him to. Once the Doctor had caught his breath and mastered a new rhythm he lowered his head even further, breath ghosting across her skin, hovering not touching, teasing. At last he pressed an open mouth to her right nipple.

She couldn't stop the sounds that poured forth unimpeded as he licked, mouthed, sucked, kissed, teased with his teeth. Her mind grabbed hold of his and held on for dear life as she cradled his face against the soft mound of her breast. The sensations went straight to her core, demanding expression. His hips began to drive into hers with a new fervor, rough and bruising. He switched to her left nipple, dropping his left hand to continue to tease the flushed and now rigid peak he had momentarily abandoned. She shuddered in the Doctor's hold, swearing in a way that would make a sailor blush. She writhed, grabbing at his hips, using her heels to pull him closer, deeper, as she came apart utterly and completely.

Missy keened his name, somehow aware that somewhere relatively nearby there were students who could hear her, who knew what the Doctor was doing to her, but she was powerless to stop the sounds that were pouring out of her. She used the wall for leverage as she rode him, his right hand suddenly holding her aching clit and guiding her to yet new heights, mouth still sucking with a fervor that caused her respiratory bypass to take over. Her entire body tensed as she unraveled incrementally, cumming against his flat, bare abdomen, muscles spasming desperately from head to toe. He followed her over the edge, sinking to his knees and barely managing to keep them from keeling over. She sagged, boneless, in his lap, cunt milking him enthusiastically as he continued to hum against her breast and manipulate her nipple with his tongue.

“Mercy,” she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. He grinned against her breast, but desisted, easing himself down to the hard floor and rolling them so that she was draped across his chest. She came back down to earth gradually, mentally batting away the embarrassed amusement of the infants outside the proverbial window. She felt overwhelmingly happy and smug...no wait, that was the Doctor. His former frustrations had completely vanished. Perhaps she should try to distract him more often.

“You really shouldn't,” he chastised. His voice sounded grumpy but she knew that he was anything but. She'd be sure to save it for special occasions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I find it quite jarring when fics write of Missy's modern undergarments. If she's wearing a corset then i am quite sure she's wearing the full kit. Which includes split leggings in my estimation: http://www.katetattersall.com/early-victorian-undergarments-part-4-pantelettes-pantalettes/


	6. The Slow Route

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know that this is ridiculously late in coming. I've tried time and again to write this but it wasn't until today that anything managed to come out. I hope you enjoy a more domestic side to things...and the bit of a surprise at the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fifteen Minutes Later_

The Doctor genuinely hadn't expected to spend so much time lying on his back staring at the ceiling today...especially first thing in the morning on a lecture day.  But his knot was being unexpectedly persistent and all they could do was wait for it to go down.  And rather than shut his mind off from Missy as he had done last time they had been a tangle of limbs he allowed himself to enjoy the steady spin of the Earth, the motes of dust dancing in the sunlight, and the bright caress of Missy's mind against his own. His fingers wandered across her skin lazily, almost testing to see if there was anything she would deny him.  She didn't.

He wasn't sure how many years it had been since they had done this last, he genuinely hadn't been keeping count, but somewhere less than a decade and more than a handful was his guess. He had written it down in a calendar so he could remember when Missy would genuinely _need_ his services again but he wasn't sure even Nardole knew what had happened to that record.  It hung over his head suddenly, the weight of Missy's distant yet impending need, the stretch of years that still faced them, that he had promised to keep her here.

Missy made a sound of amusement in the back of her throat, at least a sound he equated to amusement. It wasn't quite a laugh but her mind felt happy and content when she made it.

“Eleven years, four months, twenty-three days,” she murmured.  "Years yet before we can try again, before you need to worry."  She continued playing with the hair on his chest, each stroke coming closer and closer to dangerous territory. He wasn't entirely certain why the possibility of her caressing two perfectly innocuous disks of skin filled him with such anticipation, but they did. His heartbeats stuttered and his breath caught in his throat as her first glancing touch occurred.

“Stop that,” he grumped, though to be honest he was far from in a bad mood and he was enjoying the anticipation that her touch inspired.

“Stop this?” she asked, fingernail gently tracing his left nipple's circumference.

“Eavesdropping,” he clarified, failing to stop his hips from shifting in response to the stimulation she was providing. “I was hoping to have an intelligent conversation...” he tried not to groan as she provided even more of the aforementioned stimulation.

“We can have an intelligent conversation,” Missy demurred, rearranging their limbs so she was astride him.

“While you're doing that?” he asked, grasping her roving hand.

“This?” she asked innocently, using her free hand to pinch his right nipple. She deliberately pressed her pelvis more firmly against his as he squirmed beneath her, feeling erotically pinned. Earth continued spinning as she pushed his hips more firmly against the floor, grinding against him, nudging him deeper into her cunt's insistent grip.

“You're trying to kill me,” he rasped as she coaxed his body to new heights. She did laugh at that and started to rock against him, her breasts bouncing mesmerizingly over his face with each snap of her hips. “Fuck it,” he griped, then lifted his hands to cup her breasts, testing their weight, pressing them into his palms, thumbs manipulating her pert nipples. She carried on rubbing his pecs, paying special attention to his own nipples. They came concurrently, nowhere near as spectacularly as earlier, but with sensations synchronous and reciprocal.

He watched Missy coming undone above him, her eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving majestically, held her as it rocked through them. She tucked herself into his arms when it was over, forehead pressing to his, entire frame shuddering above him. Her mind felt changed, even brighter and more earnest than he ever expected of her. She was still just as afraid as eleven years ago but not in the same ways. She had started to heal.

“You've brought me something,” she murmured against his lips. It wasn't a question. He kissed her, hands cradling her face.

“Yes,” he agreed, pulling away at last. “The last of the books I've acquired on Earth's mythologies and religions.” She rolled her eyes, but he could feel that she was actually hoping that he'd found something that she hadn't read before.  Time past.  His knot gradually deflated enough for their bodies to separate.  She climbed off him and strolled over to the coffee table, bending down to peruse the titles he had left abandoned.  He forced himself not to stare at the bare skin that her rumpled undergarments did nothing to conceal.

He forced his frame to fold so he could sit up. His entire body protested, his back especially. He struggled with his pants and trousers, untwisting them and easing them back up his legs, then his hips. He stood up only to find Missy letting her drawers drop to the floor, her derriere fetching as she bent to retrieve them, then turning to put her apex on display as she used a dry patch of the sodden clothing to wipe away his spend. He was beginning to wonder if she had any shame.

Her camisole, still bunched at her waist, was next to go.  She slid it down her hips to reveal how soft she still was around her middle.  She was clearly fit but the slight padding remained. He found it to be a delightful juxtaposition to the harsh angles of her limbs and cheekbones. Her eyes were all vulnerability and honesty as he strode towards her, easing her handful of crumpled undergarments out of his line of sight, openly regarding her. “Gorgeous,” he murmured in Gallifreyan, the highest praise he knew how to give.  She blushed, but seemed to grow even bolder beneath his gaze, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"I trust you can clean up the mess you made?" she told him, her voice barely above a whisper.  He watched her as she carried her undergarments to the en suite, naked as the day she was born, and shut the door behind her.  He shook his head, feeling her essence ease from his mind, feeling the chaotic hormones fade to a happy buzz as he turned and started picking the essays up off the floor once again.

 

 

 

It had started as a practicality, he tried to tell himself. His classes had become so popular that they were often capped and waitlisted as soon as registration opened. He had allowed himself to be convinced to raise class sizes yet again but limit his classes to science majors only.  As a compromise, he now held an open lecture once a week...at night. His lecture theater had already been changed to a larger one and this still proved to be insufficient to the size of the crowd that wanted to attend his weekly lecture. So he was now giving his lectures in an even larger classroom,  was moved once more to one of the theaters on campus for his weekly lecture, and had been encouraged to take on a Teacher's Assistant to help him with the larger workload.

This he resisted. He didn't need as much sleep as his human counterparts. He required more time to grade papers, certainly, but he didn't trust anyone else to mark them for him. But as the weeks passed he found himself visiting Missy less and less and a certain heaviness pulling at him, a fatigue, a restlessness that he tried to ignore. Which was ridiculous since he was running around campus far more than usual, had been roped into occasionally lecturing at sites off campus, and his office was far from the new science building...it was even farther from the theater on campus to his tiny flat all the way on the opposite side of and off campus.

He hadn't invested in a car or even a bicycle, though he had taken Missy's advice and purchased a briefcase to keep the stacks of paperwork organized. Which was heavier than he would have liked but far from strenuous. It was kind of freeing in a way:  it meant he could take his work anywhere really and not risk losing any of it. Which was why he didn't correct himself when--after a night lecture that had been a particular success, upon which a small gaggle of students had wanted to pick his brain and peppered him with questions for forty-five minutes after it had ended--he found himself stumbling down to the Vault rather than walking the full distance to his flat. It was late and he was exhausted and still had marking to do before he could sleep (sleep that he had put off a bit too long).

Missy was still dressed when he arrived, reading a thick historical novel from a series that she was partial to...Outsider?, spectacles perched on the tip of her nose and looking fetching. She didn't look surprised to see him despite the fact that he never came to see her on a Wednesday. He set his briefcase down on the coffee table and sat down heavily in his chair beside her.

“Tea?” she asked, licking her finger before turning a page.

“No thanks,” he mumbled, dragging his fingers through his hair as he failed to suppress a yawn. “I know it's late, but I was hoping you would let me crash on your couch.” Strictly speaking, she didn't have a _couch_ couch, but there was the chaise. It was too short for his frame but was better than the floor.

“Take the bed,” she offered casually.

“I couldn't kick you out of your bed,” he objected.

“Suit yourself,” she hmphed. She pointedly ignored him as he systematically took off his jacket and shirt. He carried them to the en suite and hung them up in her wardrobe, then sat down on her wee ottoman to take off his shoes and socks. Trousers off next, leaving him in his undervest and boxer shorts. He grabbed an unopened toothbrush from the cabinet and brushed his teeth.

After using the loo he stumbled back into the main room. Missy was still perched in the same chair but she had dimmed the lights and was using a small torch to keep reading. He had wondered what had happened to it. He managed to bump his small toe against the leg of the coffee table as he walked past her. He leaned over to turn on the piano lamp and collapsed in his chair again. He turned his briefcase toward himself, rotating the locks to open it, and took out the first stack of papers.

It would only take him half an hour at most, he tried to convince himself as he tried to suppress another yawn. He could do this.

...

He woke with a start, uncertain where he was or when. His watch was perched on a nightstand not so far from his nose. It took him two tries to manage to pick it up and make out the time, blurry eyed. He'd slept over eight hours. Fifteen minutes until class. _Shit_.

He jumped out of bed. _Missy's_ bed. How had he gotten into Missy's bed? He fled for the en suite. He found his suit laid out. His shirt and socks were draped over the drying rack. He pulled his clothes on, his shoes, and stumbled out of the en suite only to come face to face with Missy.

“How did you sleep?” she asked sweetly, pressing a teacup into his hands. Her hands found his waist next, and he jerked as she started unbuttoning his shirt. She tsked: “Hold still.” He stared at her as she finished unbuttoning and started rebuttoning anew. “You're all disheveled, drink your tea, you'll feel better.” He gulped the hot beverage down as she tucked his shirt in, fighting to stand still and failing to stop himself from gaping as she finished straightening his clothes, then reached up to finger-comb his hair.

She gave him a once-over: “You'll do,” she sighed, as if he were hopeless, then turned her back on him, crossing the room briskly. He drank the last of his tea, then followed her, unsure of where it was safe to set the cup down when no saucer was to be had. Moments later they were standing before the coffee table and chesterton chairs. She handed him his briefcase, took the teacup from him, and pecked him on the corner of his mouth. “Have a good day at work,” she smirked.

He blinked once, twice, then remembered the time and hurried for the door. He ran the entire way to his lecture, was only three minutes late, tried to act calm as he made his way to the front of the room. The Vault was much closer to his classroom than his flat was, he mused as he set the briefcase on the desk that dominated the dais.

“All right, pipe down class,” he scolded the tittering and gossiping students. “Put your books away and get ready for a pop quiz.” The students groaned but there was a flurry of movement as they prepared themselves. He unlocked his briefcase and froze as he opened it. A bacon sandwich wrapped in a cloth napkin sat atop a stack of graded papers. Papers that he hadn't finished grading. Papers that he had fallen asleep while grading.

One of the students who always sat in the front row came up to retrieve the quizzes. He pulled the appropriate folder out and handed them to him, didn't really pay attention as the boy distributed them and pencils started whispering against papers. He sat down heavily, took a bite of the sandwich, and flipped through the essays.

Missy had disguised her handwriting as his. It was as if he had written the quips and critiques in the margins. She had even caught a couple of errors that he knew he might have missed in his fatigued state, had he managed to power through the work. She had marked the papers a few percentage points higher than he might have done, turning an 89 into a 91 and a 77 into an 80. She had written a lengthy note on the last page of one paper, explaining a particular error and encouraging the student to keep trying, that they were almost there.

The Doctor wordlessly handed essays back as students dropped off their quizzes, polishing off his sandwich as he tried to wrap his mind around what had just happened over the past twelve hours. Missy had washed his shirt and socks (ridiculous when he was still in yesterday's pants).  She had done his work.  She had somehow gotten him in bed.  And she had made him breakfast. All without being asked or a word of complaint. He wiped his mouth and hands on the napkin, pulled out his lecture notes, and found that she had graded them as well. He could read the humor in her voice as she reminded him that he always made the same mistake at Academy. It hadn't been a mistake, this was the thinking of the current time, he was at least making an effort to be considerate of his fellow professors' backward thinking. He stepped out from behind the desk, set the pages on the lectern, and started to speak.

 

 

 

She didn't say anything when he showed up a week later with a small overnight bag in addition to his briefcase. He managed to finish his grading before climbing into bed behind her that night. He managed to wake up on time, take a shower, and dress in clean clothes before walking to his Thursday morning class early. She managed to sneak a homemade muffin into his briefcase this time.

The weeks passed uneventfully. By the end of the semester, she had asked him why he didn't just leave some clothes in her wardrobe if he was going to make himself a nuisance every week. He could tell that she was secretly pleased that he was spending the night so often and this was an invitation to stay more often. So he did.

A year later and he was spending the night three or four times a week, not even going to his flat on the weekends, and he had started to think of the Vault as home. He didn't kick things when walking in the dark anymore, and it wasn't awkward if he woke up to find that his face was pillowed by Missy's gorgeous breasts or her head was supported by his chest. He got used to her calling him dear, and darling, and chaste kisses on his cheek or lips, a hand squeezing his shoulder, the way she would sometimes massage his shoulders and neck as he worked.

He found himself leaving his shoes by his chair and finding them later in the en suite wardrobe with his other shoes. He had expanded the wardrobe to fit more of his clothing (he was required to wear a different suit every day of the week as a professor, which was ludicrous but not worth the hassle of ignoring and having his superiors reprimanding him), found himself bringing home little gifts and groceries that he couldn't quite figure out why he had decided to buy, that she hadn't actually asked for, but seemed to please Missy so he kept bringing them.

He forgot to be restless. He chose to ignore the gifts as courting behavior and the domesticity of Missy reading to him after he was finished grading or preparing his lecture, his special project homework for her became monthly rather than weekly, and time went by at a normal rate. It wasn't so bad. He was even doing some research in his free time.

Nardole rarely came to the Vault anymore. He would harass the Doctor in his office or at his flat. He would point out that the landlady found it odd that the Doctor only came “home” one night out of six or seven. He was furious that the Doctor was so lenient, was fraternizing with the enemy.  Would he stop buying so many books and mismatched chairs and lamps and be reasonable?!?

The Doctor ignored it all. He was happy. He and Missy had an unspoken understanding. He didn't ask about her nightmares and she didn't ask about his. Every once in a blue moon they would have sex. Her migraines were long gone. He hadn't slept so well in centuries. She didn't complain or try to escape but continued to keep him on his toes and challenge his ideas. She listened to him patiently when he would fall into long soliloquies about his latest theory, or the way he saw the universe, or why he felt the way he did about the humans they lived among. He lived among.

She didn't criticize him anymore but he wasn't sure that he was winning her over, either. She was biding her time, for what he wasn't sure. He wasn't afraid, precisely. He still thought that she needed him more than he needed her but...oh, who was he fooling. He was terrified. She was worming her way back into his heart. He knew he had forgiven Clara easily at one time, had been willing to go to hell and back for her, and here he was again, falling back in love with the love of his lives.

He tried to ignore it. He tried to hide it. He felt embarrassed every time he realized that he had given Missy another gift, another inch, let himself be open with her. He felt awkward the nights he spent alone in his flat, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep without her soft breathing and cool body beside him. He felt ecstatic most nights as he opened the Vault that he got to come home, spend time with his best friend, become reacquainted with the person he had had a crush on for longer than he could remember. He tried not to get attached, to feel hope...he left so much unsaid and ignored the promises he had made, and almost without effort or expectation time passed painlessly.

 

 

 

Missy had a project of her own that they didn't speak about.  He had brought her all of the medical texts that he could find in the Tardis library about Gallifreyan medicine, anatomy, and interpersonal theory.  He would find the tomes stacked next to their bed, lain open across the table, strewn across his chair.  She still didn't talk much.  He would pick the books up sometimes, stare at the notes she had scribbled in the margins, the paragraphs that she had marked out.  She would take the books away from him if he seemed too interested, hide them away in random cabinets or under their bed.  He didn't ask her questions, not because he wasn't interested, but because he knew she didn't want to answer them.

He was more than a little surprised to find the books randomly strewn across the Vault one night when he came home.  She was sitting in her chair in the dark, hadn't bothered to turn on the lights when it got dark.  Her face was red, eyes wet, makeup smeared.  Her chair was surrounded by used tissues that had fallen or been flung away.  She didn't look at him as he knelt down to wipe her face clean, whispering soothing sounds.

"What's wrong?" he coaxed.

"I'm late," she snapped.  Late?  His mind struggled with the word, with what she meant by it.  He blinked up at her, wondering what was so dire to bring her to this state.  He wasn't late, had shown up his usual time post-lecture.  Late?

She hissed:  "You don't even care," she flung at him.  "Have you changed your mind so soon about trying for a baby?"

Oh, his mind realized.   _Oh_.  If a human woman said she was late, that meant she was probably pregnant.  If a Time Lady said it, that meant she hadn't a chance of becoming pregnant.

"No," he assured her quietly.  "I haven't changed my mind.  I've just...lost track of time."

"Lost track," she scoffed.  "Your entire life is time.  Class five days a week.  Office hours twice a week.  Your additional lecture night.  You have to know what time it is and where you need to be and so you're there, suit on, papers graded, lecture prepared, on time _every day_.  And I sit here without so much as a clock and count the seconds away until you come back to me, until you give me a few minutes or hours of your life.  And you've lost track of the _only_ thing I have to look forward to, to hope for in the future.  The baby that you _might_ give me and my body _might_ let me keep..."

"I'm sorry," he interrupted.  "This was the deal we made..."

"This was the deal _you_ made," she spat back.  Which was fair.  He hadn't asked her permission to put her in the Vault.  He had simply done it.  The silence hung heavy between them.

"Did you want me to let you die? Would you rather I was looking at your corpse right now rather than coming home to you every night?"  Missy's face crumpled:

"No," she whimpered, her tears starting anew.

"Do you want me to go now?" he asked.

"No," she breathed again, clutching at his wrist, a tinge of fear in her voice. He ran his fingers through his hair, mind racing. He couldn't find a real doctor for her.  He couldn't take her to Gallifrey or give her the drugs that might fix her body.  _Might_.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"I want you to stay," she whispered. "Don't leave me."  He took her hands in his own:

"I'm not going to leave you here alone," he assured her.  "I promise you that.  But I'm not going to stop teaching simply because you're unhappy that I don't pay more attention to you."

She was being punished, for goodness sake. He suddenly realized that her prison had gotten very comfortable, that his constant presence could be seen as a reward or...Nardole probably thought that she was manipulating him. "Are you not grateful for all that I've done for you?" he asked. "Are you not happy?"

 _Am I not enough?_ was left unasked.  Her eyes grew larger in alarm and she threw her arms around his shoulders, sobbing:

"Don't go," she begged. "I'll be good, I'm trying to be good." The Doctor found himself holding her back just as tightly as she was holding him. She didn't understand. It didn't matter if she was good, he loved her just the same. He loved her so much that it terrified him, that he had run away from her for a thousand years. And he had made a promise...

There was something here, a memory that he couldn't put his finger on. Love is not...love is.  "Love is not an emotion," Missy whispered to him. "Love is a promise." She pulled away enough to see his face: "You told me that once, when Clara's boyfriend resisted his cyberprogramming..." she hung her head. They never talked about Clara. They never talked about the birthday gift. "You said that you always have  _them..._  your pets, the humans who remind you to be better."

"Did I?" he asked.

"Yes, and then...you promised Clara that you would kill me rather than let her do it."

"Clara tried to kill you?" he could feel his fingers tighten on Missy's body reflexively. He couldn't imagine letting anyone killing Missy in front of him, let alone...the thought of trying to kill her himself...it was unimaginable. He choked on the panic that was suddenly threatening to overwhelm him.  He couldn't remember. "Missy, I can't remember properly, I don't know...how did you get captured by the Fatality Index? You mentioned Daleks..."

"We went to Skaro together." Missy's voice was barely above a whisper. "We went because Davros was dying and you were being an idiot.  Clara and I were separated from you and...you thought she was dead." Something unspoken hung heavy in her words that he couldn't put his finger on, some personal affront where he had ostensibly wronged Missy and she hadn't quite forgiven him. "I wanted to teach you, I trusted that you would be true to yourself..." her words came to a halt and she clutched at him again, insistent. "Please believe me, I put her into that casing to keep her safe, to make sure I could get her back to you, but...when you saw her, I was so jealous..."

"I am a Dalek, I am alive," he interrupted, the memory suddenly springing to his mind. "I am your enemy...I show mercy."

"Yes," Missy breathed. "That was Clara, and you figured it out, you didn't kill her, but...you were so angry with me..." She didn't need to say it, he already knew.

"I left you on Skaro," he pronounced.

"Yes," she confirmed.

There it was. The reason he had felt such guilt at the Fatality Index. He hadn't understood it at the time. He knew he had been in the wrong but hadn't known how.

"I'm sorry," he told her. He cannot imagine how she suffered, only...if anyone can imagine what that would be like, it's him. "How can you forgive me?" Missy's eyes met his in the darkness:

"You once told me, 'Do you think I care for you so little that betraying me would make a difference?'" she reminded him. He tried to untangle that memory, could feel it sinking. That memory was somehow tied to Clara, he could feel it in the way her words made him feel like he was drowning. He must have given those words to Clara as well. No wonder she had been jealous of Clara. Had he really l...liked her that much? "You can't do anything to make me love or hate you any more than I already do," Missy pronounced. "Everything I am is for you."

He felt his hands slipping away from Missy's body in shock, falling to his lap. A part of him had always known this intellectually. All of the Master's schemes had been attempts to get his attention, to return to his affections. In that, all of the Mistress' actions were his fault. He couldn't bring himself to kill her. He couldn't imagine not forgiving her, not loving her, not hating her. The hate wasn't as overwhelming an emotion as it once had been, she had made him happy, made him forget his grudge...they'd had decades together now. He never would have thought it was possible for them to live together like this again, side by side, neither trying to kill the other, no schemes. He desperately hoped she wasn't secretly scheming away on something, that he could believe her when she said she is trying to be good.

But it was one thing to know something intellectually and quite another to feel it in his bones, in his very being. She would be the death of him because he could not bring himself to be the death of her. A part of him was relieved that they had no child, another part desperate to make sure he always had a permanent piece of her. He couldn't imagine losing her again, not after all this... and at the same time he wanted to run away, to hide, to ignore all the times the Mistress had hurt him. "I'm sorry," she interrupted his spiraling thoughts. "I know it isn't a strong enough word to atone for everything I've done to you and your...your  _friends_."

He could feel how much it pained her to use that word, friend, to give temporary, stupid, small humans such an important designation. That word that should only be hers in her mind. "I am sorry," she whispered again. "I know that I deserve to be here, for longer than a thousand years, for no matter how long it takes to rid myself of this unreasonable jealousy and rage and carelessness..."

"Carelessness," he scoffed, the magnitude of the Master's schemes still lying heavy upon him.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

He wanted to believe her.

 

 


	7. May 1976

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy's second heat finally arrives. Warnings for somewhat dubious consent.
> 
> And it seems no one caught the One reference in the last chapter (or at least no one commented on it). Dang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally got my butt in gear and created a moodboard for this fic.  
> 

It was a day like any other, only a heat wave was relentlessly rolling across Britain. All of his students were damp and distracted, fanning their faces, trying not to fall asleep, and were generally more useless than usual. Time seemed to stand still in his lectures and class discussion was nonexistent. It was too difficult to think about anything other than the way sweat was creeping down his back and his shirt was clinging to his chest and his curls were wet at his temples and nape...and there was a buzzing in his head that was distracting and he couldn't place. It wasn't precisely painful, but it was insistent and getting louder.

The Doctor let class out a bit early and did his usual weekly supermarket shopping before returning to the Vault, somewhat cranky that nearly everything he had set eyes on had seemed like not only a good idea but something he had to have. The clerk had stared as he rolled two carts out the front door, knew that he didn't have a car, that he always walked. He slunk into the alleyway before opening his cloth shopping bag. It took him five minutes to wrangle everything into the sack.

The walk across campus was agony. He tried to keep to the shade, but even the trees were starting to wilt beneath the sun's onslaught. He had even indulged in a carton of ice cream and was relieved that he had designed his shopping bag to keep the food cool as well as the antigrav component that kept two carts of shopping light enough to carry by hand. He would never have managed the walk through the heat otherwise, every step felt like a battle towards the end, and he was instantly relieved by the cool subterranean darkness of the Vault's basement entryway.

He let himself in, and was about to call out a greeting when he realized that Missy was sitting perched on a stool, facing him, wearing nothing but her reading glasses. The buzzing heightened and his fingers started to tingle incessantly. _Oh._ She licked a finger and turned the page of her first edition of Carl Sagan's _Cosmos_ nonchalantly (one of his more recent gifts).

The room's temperature, while warmer than usual, was still quite cool compared to even his office or the lecture hall. She had done nothing to dim the artificial lighting, it was almost too bright, felt like harsh, midday bright, summer sunlight. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a new style, frizzing wildly. Her skin was noticeably damp in an attractive, dewy sort of way. Not sodden as he was after his treacherous walk home. He wondered if she expected him to fall apart like the first time he had found her doing yoga, before they had come to their current domestic arrangement. They had just had sex a month ago, he wasn't eager to exert himself in that way after a enduring the heat wave outside.

“What if I'd sent Nardole down?!?” he grumped as he crossed the room to the kitchenette, setting the shopping heavily on the counter.

“You mean the mechanical drudge that's avoiding me and all its caregiving duties?” she asked dryly. “It would be rather surprised and probably flee in terror, likely to never return.” He started pulling food out with surprising vigor and putting it away, shutting doors with slightly more force than was strictly needed.

“I would have to kill him,” he muttered quietly. “That or perform a memory wipe.” Missy tsked across the room:

“You'd never forgive yourself.”

It took him twenty minutes to put away the shopping. Missy didn't move from her stool the entire time, wasn't even watching him. Cans, flour, and sugar in the pantry he had constructed ages ago. Ice cream shoved into the tiny freezer...he took two minutes to expand its interior dimensions slightly. A new tea blend in the cabinet closest to the new electric teapot, and of course biscuits on the shelf above.

They had enough food stored for two weeks. He had been gradually increasing their food storage capabilities, and neither of them had spoken of it. He wasn't sure why it seemed so important to him, he came to the Vault every day, was rarely visiting his apartment now (in fact, the cupboards there were positively bare). Every time he came home after shopping he seemed to have more to put away, which was frankly embarrassing since all of the locals knew him to be an established bachelor. None of the locals tried to flirt with him anymore. They were polite but somewhat distant, as if they accepted that he lived among them but didn't quite trust his eccentricities.

But as he stared at his most ridiculous haul yet, finally put away, he had the distinct sensation that it still wasn't enough. The Cold War would stay cold but someday there might be an invasion that he hadn't dealt with yet, that he couldn't just leave to his past selves. There might be a natural disaster that he hadn't remembered. Might, might, might.

The buzzing heightened once again, and he realized that his dick was semi-erect. So his body wasn't as disinterested as he had assumed. He strode into the en suite, put the shopping bag away in his briefcase before setting it on top of the wardrobe where only he could easily reach it, and then he started to discard clothing. His suit would have to be dry cleaned. He hung it on the appropriate hangars and slid it into the slim home unit he had added into the closet next to the washer and dryer. He threw his shirt and all of his undergarments into the washer and then grabbed some clothes from the hamper.

He paused over a piece of Missy's clothing. It was her favorite nightgown, slightly worn, no longer crisp and new. He buried his nose in it, inhaling deeply. It felt like coming home. He sneezed, eyes watering. She didn't usually smell so strong, the heat outside must be affecting her as well. He dropped it on top of the other clothes and added the washing powder, started the water filling, closed the closet doors to muffle the sound.

He stared at himself in the mirror. His face and chest were still flushed with the heat, his indulgence in Missy's scent had made his not-so-little Time Lord fully erect. His body, though no longer used to running, had been kept fit by regular yoga sessions with Missy. She would always be more flexible than he was, but his body's capabilities continued to surprise him, and he enjoyed the meditative aspects. His earlier fatigue seemed to be fading despite the dull throbbing in his temples and a slight twinge in his lower spine.

He stepped into the shower and turned the water as cold as he could stand. He washed his hair. He scrubbed his body down. He ignored his erection, which oddly wasn't flagging. He allowed the water to rush over him from head to toe, lingering far longer than was his wont. He turned off the water and got out, drying himself briskly with a towel, still ignoring his dick. He looked in the mirror again. His headache had dropped a couple of notches but was still present. He still looked flushed. He briefly considered getting redressed, but...it seemed pointless.

He tossed his towel into the hamper and strode out of the en suite and back to the kitchenette. A pitcher of lemonade was waiting on the counter, almost more ice than liquid, the glass already glistening with condensation. So she had noticed that he had bought lemons. He poured himself a tumbler full and downed it in one. His fingertips were tingling again. He poured himself a second helping and crossed the room, practically throwing himself into his chair, limbs askew so as not to rub against each other, enjoying the fan that was blowing towards him from the other side of Missy. Who looked as if she hadn't moved a centimeter, though he knew that to be impossible.

He needed to buy more fans. He still felt overheated despite his lengthy shower. Another to blow on the bed for more coverage. Maybe one for the en suite. Definitely one for the kitchen. This heat would last for months yet and he hated it already. His skin buzzed pleasantly as he sipped his drink. Missy stared at him over her spectacles, shutting her book firmly:

“Are you seriously intending to just sit there the rest of the day?”

“I thought that was the idea,” he admitted, as if lounging about naked was normal for him. He normally would be halfway through marking papers by now. His mind had utterly rebelled against that practicality. He almost felt drunk, and his thoughts kept sliding away from him. Had she put something in the lemonade? Impossible, he would have tasted it.

“Typical, just ignore me,” she uncrossed her legs revealing a completely bare labia, free of its usual auburn fuzz, and reopened her book. Several things happened in quick succession: his entire body went rigid, vibrating as her scent wafted over him courtesy of the fan. His glass fell out of his hand, thunking quietly onto the Turkish carpet that covered the chairspace's patch of floor, lemonade and ice splashing across its surface. His brain short-circuited with conflicting messages of imperatives to cover Missy from view, thoroughly debauch her with a huge meal before a thorough fucking, or spending the foreseeable future worshiping her.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he intoned, finding himself on his feet. He crossed the space between them, seized _Cosmos_ , tossed it aside onto her tea table, and kissed Missy firmly. Unlike a millennium ago, she didn't object to kissing. She even opened her legs to welcome him in, wrapping them about his waist, urging his lower body closer. He tried to simultaneously work his tongue into her mouth to consume her taste while caressing every available millimeter of her skin with his hands, which were now itching furiously, and of course could not satisfactorily manage it. She broke the kiss off by taking his erection in hand.

“Well hello little friend,” she greeted him in Gallifreyan, rubbing her palm against his length, thumb flicking against his frenulum as she pulled back his foreskin to reveal the glistening head. “Aren't you happy to see me.”

“Ecstatic,” he confirmed in their native tongue, lifting her fully into his arms, which unfortunately captured her hand between their bodies and put a halt on her manipulations. He gazed around the room, lost in a haze. Where would be best to fuck her? The bed was comfortable, but too far away. The fainting couch was an odd shape. The tea table was closest. He stumbled over.

Meanwhile, she had his dick in a death grip and had started to nibble at his neck. He set her on the table, laying her out before him like a buffet, pulling her hips as close to his as he could manage. She shook her head, shoving books out of the way to clear away space for herself, then lifted a hand to remove her glasses... “No, leave them on,” he demanded. She complied and spread her legs even farther, accommodatingly.  Her sex looked like a soft, juicy peach, ready to be devoured.  He dropped to his knees, spread her labia with his fingertips, and started to eat her out, trying to watch her as she came apart on his tongue. She had propped herself on her elbows at first, gazing down at him eagerly, but almost immediately her head was thrown back, face frustratingly out of view as she began to fairly sing in ecstasy.

She smelled _fantastic_. He clutched at her hips for dear life, kneading them as he tried to capture every last drop of her essence. If felt like his hearts were moments from exploding. “ _Mistress_ ,” he intoned against her clit. And she was already coming, cunt clenching ineffectually on nothing. He slid two fingers inside obligingly and coaxed her through it, standing with fingers bent to bounce against her p-spot as he thrust them into her enthusiastically, causing her orgasm to peak a second time and for her to howl, writhing on the table as she squirted. He knelt back down to catch it into his mouth.

“Good boy,” she gasped, pushing his head away only moments later, gripping his wrist so he would stop pumping his fingers into her. He raised himself from the floor again and hovered nearby, their bodies still connected, watching her heaving chest, her cunt still contracting as if trying to milk his fingertips. She was _so wet_. He added a third finger, curled his fingers to stroke some more of her nectar out of her. She keened, hissing “too much,” and forced his hand away this time.

She rolled away from him, giving him a fabulous view of her bare backside, before dropping off the table on the opposite side and fleeing around the edge of the room, keeping furniture between them as she darted from hiding place to hiding place. She cupped her sex with one hand, distractedly rubbing, unable to keep her hands off even though she was “ _too_ sensitive.” She cried as she fell to her knees, still coming, coming again?

He was vaguely aware that no matter how many times she came, whether it be on his fingers or her own, that it wouldn't be enough. He pursued her across the room, chasing her round in circles, until he caught her around the waist, holding her to his chest, shushing her. They fell to the floor in a mess of limbs, fighting for dominance. She was using nails. He used strong hands and whispered promises of protection and devotion. She finally stilled in his arms just long enough to allow him to relax, to try to turn her so he could see her face and kiss her again.

She punched him in the nose and grabbed his dick in a grip like a vice. His eyes watered and his nose dripped hot red blood. He felt feverish now. She yanked on his dick hard, once, twice, three times, then somehow squeezed his knot even harder. He groaned as he orgasmed, his vision a waterfall of sparks and rainbows as his body tried to come, but she wouldn't let it. Her strength was astonishing. His knot had nowhere to go and it hurt with the intensity of it.

He grabbed both of her wrists and squeezed them so hard that they would have broken in his grip had she been human. She let go of his erection, tossing her head, as he wrestled her arms above her head, pinning her to the ground with his hips. She hissed and spat at him as he adjusted her wrists to one of his hands and freed the other to stroke her face soothingly. Teeth snapped and he barely pulled away in time to avoid losing a finger.

She took the opening to insert first one of her knees between their chests, then two, holding his chest at a distance above hers as he pressed down in response. His painfully rigid dick prodded with interest at her swollen folds and her eyes flashed in fury. She drew from unknown reserves to buck him off of herself, retreating across the room on all fours, disappearing underneath their bed. He just managed to catch one of her feet at the last moment.

This hiding place was ultimately a bad choice for her: he was too large to follow her, but she was too large to properly turn around and retaliate. And he had a strong grip on her that she wouldn't be able to shake or kick off without more room for better leverage, which didn't stop her from trying to find a way to break his grip.

He made no attempt to pull her from beneath the bed, simply kept her from retreating fully. She bumped and bounced against the bottom of the bed frame and mattress above herself, howling in fury, trying to pull herself out by gripping the frame on opposite side, but all of her flailing ceased once he brushed his fingertips across the top of her metatarsals. She finally stilled, panting, silently waiting.

“I yield my body and mind,” he commanded her firmly. She gave one last attempt at a kick, but he had been expecting it and she did not manage to extract her ankle from his grip.

He stroked across her instep once more. “I yield my body and mind,” he repeated, the Gallifreyan rolling off his tongue not unlike the Scottish burr he used while speaking English. Missy whimpered, her entire body shivering:

“I yield my body and mind,” she whispered back. He released her ankle only long enough to take her foot in both hands and massage firmly, with a force somewhere between command and entreaty. She didn't try to shake him off this time.

“Please,” he whispered. Her mind flowered open beneath his touch in response, welcoming his mind in as if with open arms. His fingers continued their work systematically, working their way through all of the forms that activated the necessary pressure points. Missy moaned, insistently pressing her foot into his hands now.

He continued his work silently for a long time. Their minds flowed together easily, her directing the proceedings, nudging him away from areas that she didn't want him to see. Secrets were permissible but often pointless. He would see it all eventually but retain little of it. The intricate workings of her mind only deepened his devotion for her. She had strengthened so much since her last heat. Her mind was woven together, well ordered, whole, yet still defiant. It would be hours yet before she was truly pliant.

He found himself murmuring their vow oh so quietly, her moans heightening. She shuddered in his grasp, fighting against her psychic release with all her being. He had gone through all of the forms twice, their minds were firmly locked together, and a part of her still refused to open, to look, to permit. “I'm here,” he promised. She knew this, and yet she was still afraid. “Let go,” he commanded her gently.

She did. Her entire frame shuddered with the fervid, all-consuming earnestness of it. He could smell rather than see her thighs grow slick, so close yet so far away. He could see the timelines slide by in a blur, as if they were on a roller coaster together rather than crouched in their bedspace. She groaned as if in pain as it tore through her body and he felt the intensity of it as if her body was his own. And then it was over, and she was shuddering in the dim underneath, ashamed and still afraid.

Fatigue washed over them both, bone-deep and intense. He realized that he had finally come himself, only a bit and not to any satisfaction or purpose, on the floor. His knot was only half inflated and was an angry red, throbbing in dissatisfaction. “I'm here,” he promised before dashing off to the cleanspace. He wiped himself off with a cold, wet flannel, discarded it, then retrieved a second and wet it with warm water for her.

Back to their bedspace, he turned the fan on and set it on the floor so it would blow on her under the bed. She had fully retreated now, her foot having disappeared into the dimness with her. She was still awake, too wired to let herself sleep, and in agony. He went to the other side of the bed, nearer her head, and knelt, holding the flannel out to her in supplication. “Missy...”

Her hand darted out to snatch the gift away. Whimpers betrayed the pain she was in as she cleaned herself. His own pain decreased as her scent was dampened. She passed the cloth back, gripped at his wrist insistently. She wanted him and yet she didn't. He grabbed her afghan from off the bed and pressed it to the back of her hand. She took it, releasing him from her grasp.

He left her again. His hand was throbbing from the used flannel. He washed his hands three times after tossing it away. It didn't help. He returned to the chairspace and cleaned up the lemonade, grateful the tumbler hadn't shattered. Either of them could have cut themselves in their frenzied chase, barefoot and hardly rational. He retrieved some cheese and thinly-sliced corned beef from the fridge, some fruit and a cup of lemonade. He set the plate and cup where she could reach, just beside the bed. She whimpered. He brought the fan from the teaspace, setting it up so it could blow on her, too.

He pulled the duvet off the bed and arranged it on the floor, creating a nest. He lay down in it. It was _so hot_. He reached out for her, and their fingertips met, then meshed together. Her breathing had slowed. They drifted off to sleep together.

 


	8. Heat Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy and the Doctor's minds are fractured by the desperate heat their bodies are gripped by. In other words, mindless smut and its aftereffects. 
> 
> Warning: this chapter contains the depiction of someone being sick. Feel free to chew me out over it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She awoke suddenly, panting in fear, her body abruptly jolting into awareness. It was dim where she was, dusty and stuffy. She was covered in sweat and slick, shivering with the aftereffects of her nightmare. She didn't recognize this place. Her refuge was uncomfortably warm, the overhead box too low. She shoved her blanket away from herself, too hot. She could barely lift her head without her hair catching against the fabric stretched overhead or her head bumping against hidden wood. She could smell food and her mate nearby. She started to slither towards them, inadvertently kicking something hard in the darkness, scattering it across the floor with a quiet thump. She ignored the sting in her toes and the mess she had created as she slid out into golden sunlight.

She lifted herself to a crouch then stretched, feeling her cramped muscles twitch and clench in protest. There was something rigid on her nose, had been digging into her face as she slept, so she pulled it off her face, setting it behind her on the floor, underneath. She was suddenly distracted by motes her movements had stirred up drifting in the light before her. They seemed to swim before her, dancing in the air, then drifting downwards again as a nearby machine clicked into a different direction, pausing in its side to side motion before oscillating back in the other direction only to scatter them once more. Her thoughts tried to escape her in the same way: she was missing words and the world felt as if it had been tipped on its side.

The machine had turned far enough to blow air across her damp flesh, causing minuscule bumps to erupt across her skin, before sliding away again. It was simultaneously soothing and arousing. Her nipples pebbled, and she allowed herself to rub at them distractedly. She inhaled through her open mouth and could taste the intertwining scents of her mate's sweat, her own sweat and slick, the food he had gifted to her. She reached for the food, stuffing salty meat into her face, chasing the taste down with sweet orbs, the flavors of which exploded on her tongue. She consumed everything her mate had provided, gulped down the watery sour-drink, then spread tiny pieces of ice across her chest, against her nipples, between her breasts, one by one. They melted nearly instantaneously upon contact with her flushed skin, joining the sweat that coated her skin within seconds.

She pushed the food holders under the box with the discarded face thing, then turned her attention to her mate. He was sleeping peacefully despite the fact that he had blood smeared across his face and hands. She crept closer, fingertips probing at his puffy, purpling nose. Affection rose up in her chest; she didn't know much right now, but she knew she loved his nose. She didn't want him to be in pain or damaged. She pinched the stiff...cartilage bit beneath the skin, gently probed, then pulled. There was a click as the hidden nose parts went back into place. Her mate jerked awake, groaning, panting with the pain of it, and froze beneath her gaze. She brushed her fingertips across his nose once more, golden light dancing across his skin, swelling easing... There. Perfect.

They stared at one another for long seconds more, each heartbeat an eternity. He lifted a hand to gently grasp her wrist, kissed each of her...fingertips in turn. She could feel his mind against her own, whisper-soft and tentative. Safe. Their hands intertwined next, fingers tangling, and he sat up, curling towards her, beckoning her closer to himself. She didn't fight him, was relieved by his proximity as she crawled to him, could feel her muscles systematically relax as his mind came better into focus, into tune. They played with each other's hands then, exploring: stroking, tickling, gently scratching, rubbing, tasting, each tender press or kiss against palm or wrist or hand-back sending whisper-soft waves of safety, acceptance, longing, radiating up her arm and down her spine. He pinched the webbing between her pointer and thumb, working it back and forth.

She shifted as her entire body clenched, yearning. A new tension was building inside her, an itch that she wasn't sure she liked. The rubbing gradually became more urgent, and she felt a new itch in the small of her back, the nape of her neck, synchronously, even more terribler than the earlier itch, impossible to ignore and almost terrifying in intensity. Mate nibbled at her webbing, just firmly enough to make the itch heighten and gently explode across her frame. She gasped, throwing her head back as release fluttered throughout her entire body from head to toe, nerves tingling, blood pounding particularly in her hands, feet, and brainstem. One of his palms found the nape of her neck and he held her against his body, against his mind, as she vibrated in his arms, panting. An ache spread from between her legs across her rump.

Once she had regained control of her limbs she squirmed, twisting out of her mate's grasp and flipping herself onto all fours to present herself to him, rump lifted and wet sex exposed, hands fisting in the soft nest he had prepared for her. The itch had hardly eased, was already gaining pitch anew. He was instantly up on his knees behind her, hands pressing against the place where she wanted him, on either side of her spine against her...against her spots. Their minds slid against one another's as his hands pressed and rubbed. She lowered her face onto her forearms, crying out, tilting her hips to press back against his hands as he massaged her body to greater heights. Yes, like that, yes.

His mind felt simultaneously foreign and familiar. She knew him of old. Promise, safety, acceptance, were all parts of who he was. Something was missing, something she loved and...thoughts blurred and danced away from her. She whimpered, sending _want need want please want mate need take_ to him in desperation. Her hips bucked as he continued to work her back, urgently and ever so slightly roughly. He pressed his engorged sex against her bum so she could feel how much he wanted her.  _More_ her mind chanted: _more more more_.

One of his... hand... left her back, and then there it was at her entrance, spreading her... petals to... slide... rub against her wet heat. She sobbed, feeling the itch abate just a fraction, then grow yet more. Mate rubbed her both behind and below, teasing now. His...fingers... dipped their way inside her wet heat and she instinctively clenched around them. _Welcome_ , she purred, back dipping to press up, to grant access, her mind drowning in _want please need mate guh_... as he caressed and dipped deeper, pushing and pulling, causing glorious friction. And then he slid his mind...fingers... in deeper still, curling them to stroke against...ecstasy. Sensation skittered up and down her spine. Her mind went fuzzy, like static. She saw sparks behind her clenched eyelids. He teased her here a while longer, bringing her to the brink, to a glorious edge, but not letting her fall. He scissored his fingers, then added a third, working her to new heights, coaxing new gushes of slick out of her, never leaving that special place alone for long. As he worked her he started praising her:

 _Hot wet hot tight wet stretch pretty mine_ , he pressed into her mind. His...he had pulled out now, was still rubbing but...not enough. Was spreading her slick everywhere but where she needed.

 _In,_ her entire being insisted. _Time._ She whined, her hips rocked in petition, and his hands pressed harder against her back, holding her down. _Knot mate desperate in want procreate knot need time..._

 _Trust._ And then the teasing was over and he was pushing in again. She squirmed and twisted in defiance. Still hand? She both wanted and didn't want that. But no, she felt both his hands holding her hips down now, steadying her as he eased in to the...knot. His knot caught on her petals, not yet inside, not where she wanted needed begged, minds brightening and entwining more securely. He shushed her, rubbing her spots, her...hips pelvis ass. Her body relaxed infinitesimally.

And then they were moving, bodies pushing pulling undulating dancing as one. He knew what she wanted, no sending needed, they were one now, one mind, one body, one purpose. _Itch soothe burn rescind raw comfort empty fill alone together empty expand barren grow despair hope alone promise._ His knot was knocking against her entrance as he pistoned his hips forward with each stroke, almost but not quite sliding home, catching and pressing in a way that was maddening. Each stroke drove his...head...against her...inner spot, and was bliss, was elastic. They moved reciprocally, each action causing reaction, _thrust bounce press pull open higher_ until finally, oh yes, he slid home, her sheath finally accepting his knot, and everything froze in one last final heartsbeat of anticipation as his shaft and knot swelled further still, locking their bodies together at last.

She heard herself keening, almost screaming, as they fell over the edge together, their mind awash with ecstatic nebulae of insistent completion. He bent to wrap his frame around hers, kissing at shoulders and nape, nuzzling, protecting, before collapsing on top of her, sending them deeper into the nest. His body vibrated over hers, hips jerking with each pulse as he emptied himself deep inside her, knot tugging with each squirm, causing her channel to clench and contract harder, milking his knot of all that he had to give, a flood of stimulation and completion.

Time spun around them, a storm of possibilities that horrified her. She tried to hide beneath her mate, but the time was inside as well as around. Strong hands caressed and comforted her then as he flipped them onto their sides, curling his body around hers, knot shifting and tugging just enough... The flood began anew and he grunted, clutching at her ribs as she undulated in his lap, finding more stimulation, more relief as he continued to release and she continued to draw from him. Her lower stomach cramped sharply, expanded, her body continued to take. His palms cupped her breasts, pulling her tight against his chest, holding on for dear life, petitioning for it to stop. It didn't stop.

Time was still swirling. They soared on rainbows and sunlight and moonbeams across galaxies. She recognized some of the constellations and nebulae, the Medusa Cascade. She whispered his true name and he whispered her true name back. She felt rather than saw it all roll past, fleeting sensations of her gravid womb expanding with life, her muscles straining to bring forth a child...her mate caressed her nipple, his other hand pressed possessively against bellybutton simultaneously, as if he could physically feel her body grown round with child. She squirmed as the stimulation sends her flying further still, impressions of a babe sucking at her breast as his fingertips twisted and pulled, lips pressing to her shoulder and throat and hair as mate's hips jerk haphazardly.

He was _still_ emptying more of his seed within her, each pump irregular in timing but insistent. She could almost believe that she felt it take root with another twinge of a cramp. Her sex continued to milk his, petals closed like an aperture around the intrusion of his shaft, holding his knot inside her canal even more securely than the knot alone. This was something new, this desperate gripping that refused to let go. Last time she had come for this long she had had nothing inside her, this time it had purpose.

Air wafted across their connected bodies, cool against heat. She pulled the nest closer around them, partially covering their tangled limbs, hiding from the light and time that continued to hover and swirl. Their breath and sweat combined as they continued to pant in their nestspace. It was slowly winding down. He continued to empty sporadically, with no discernible pattern, her womb continued to take. She clenched her eyes closed, against the over-stimulating cacophony of light and sensation and possibility, and allowed the darkness to take her.

 

 

 

The air was tickling her nose, the dawn's first sunlight just beginning to dance across her eyelids. She rolled over, hoping to tuck her face into the Doctor's throat and sleep for longer, but found...no Doctor. She's not in their bed as she had assumed, either, why is she on the floor? She pushed herself mostly upright and groaned. Her entire abdomen was sore, lower belly bloated, her thighs coated in slick. She tossed back the duvet to look...

Copious amounts of opalescent cum were oozing and dripping their way out of her, down her thighs, into the duvet. Her own clear spend had spread all the way down her legs to her calves, had started to crust as it dried. No blood. Had she had a heat? Was she...is she?!?

“Shit,” she whispered. Which was about how she felt. Starving, filthy, sore, fuzzy-minded, alone...only she could feel the Doctor nearby. She couldn't see him, so that left the Vault's only separate room. She grasped the bed's brass frame to pull herself up off the floor, groaning, room spinning, stomach churning. She stumbled across one room and into the next as quickly as possible, lunging for the toilet, barely making it there in time to gag, retching up bile, mostly dry heaving. Her stomach cramped in protest, feeling hollowed out and empty, the nausea pounding her into submission.

She heard water gently splashing nearby and realized that she needed to urinate quite badly or she was going to soil herself. In fact, she's not entirely certain that she hadn't already, so much liquid was sliding down between her thighs. She managed to push herself off the floor to sit on the toilet, eyes clenched against the spinning room, straining to push out every last drop of liquid as quicly as possible, before it was too late...only to find herself gagging yet again, stomach expelling. Why had she wanted this?

She miraculously didn't throw up on herself. The Doctor pressed a wastebasket into her hands and she bent over it, body clenching insistently as it forced more fluids up her throat, out her cunt. She spat, trying but failing to get the taste out of her mouth. He caressed her face with wet hands, easing her hair back, away from her face and the sick. Twas nice despite the nauseous feeling that was still trying to find a way out of her stomach through her throat even though she didn't have anything to give.

“You need to eat and rehydrate,” he told her, hands feeling way too comforting for her to still be in this much agony.

“Fuck you,” she responded. “I'm not eating anything.” His mind was bright with amusement but he had the decency not to audibly laugh at her childish petulance.

“I know it doesn't feel like it, but food will help,” he assured her as she gagged yet again, stomach insisting that this was this the only recourse. She felt bad that he not only had to hear and smell her nausea but feel it as well, could feel the feedback of his nausea compounding her own...

When she resurfaced from her stomach's latest fit he was gone. She hugged the wastebasket to her chest, trying not to whimper, hot tears running down her cheeks, dripping down onto her lap, into the puddle of sick in the wastebasket that smelled horrid and made her want to gag some more. But her body truly had nothing left to give, was empty at both ends. No...his seed was still dripping out of her. How much? How long? She was so bloated that he must have _really_ filled her womb and the discharge was more copious than she was used to.

She wiped her mouth with some tissue, dumped the sick into the toilet, then flushed it away. The Doctor had been taking a bath, her tired mind supplied. She carried her sickbucket with her to the tub, setting it down on the floor next to it before climbing up inside and settling her stiff body into its warmth. The water was already cooling...which was good for baby, not as good for sore muscles. _Baby_ , her mind reminded her. Baby.

And then she smelled toast. She lifted her head, hand reaching for the Doctor as he came bearing food and drink. He gave her hand a squeeze before setting the tray down on the floor. “Water first,” he commanded, pressing a tall glass into her hands, his other hand back in her hair again, rubbing her nape, mind gentle against her own. His mere touch was immensely comforting, his mind familiar and steady against her own uncertain and churning emotions. She took a sip and swished it in her mouth, spitting it into the wastebasket he held for her. She took another sip of water, ice cold and refreshing, spreading down her throat, soothing, then spreading throughout her empty stomach. Her stomach clenched again but the water stayed down. She drained the rest of the glass.

And then there was toast. He held it up to her mouth, she started to turn away, still resistant, but he wasn't to be deterred. “Eat,” he commanded insistently. She took a bite, chewed. It was bland but went down and stayed there. They gingerly worked their way through the piece of toast, a banana, some boiled eggs, another piece of toast. Her nausea gradually abated. Her stomach didn't rebel. She washed it all down with a glass of milk. Then she sat up so the Doctor could climb into the tepid water behind her.

She laid back against him, feeling sated and drowsy, her head lolling against his shoulder. “Do you remember?” he asked, his hands rubbing her sore abdominal muscles.

“Stay hydrated, eat small meals and snacks throughout the day, keep nausea at bay,” she rattled off drowsily.

“Good,” he breathed into her hair, kissing her forehead. Her uterus contracted dully, and she tensed, her eyes fluttering open to check. “It's okay,” he soothed. There was no blood in the water. Her uterus was just shrinking back down as her body continued to expel the excess sperm. His hand drifted lower to gently cup the spot just above her pubic bone.

“This is really happening, right?” she asked quietly, her voice barely a whisper. Was it safe to give a name to this? Baby. He smiled against her cheek:

“It's really happening,” he agreed. She turned in his arms, just far enough to see his face. She could feel his quiet joy, his tentative hopefulness, but she needed his eyes. She found so much affection and acceptance and rightness in them that it was overwhelming. He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her mouth away, causing him to kiss her jawline instead. He followed it up with a peck to her cheekbone and ear and hair...

“I still haven't brushed my teeth,” she scolded.

“I don't care,” he confessed, the affection in his chest surging and washing over her. He felt so happy. She felt exhausted. She snuggled deeper against his frame. The water was turning cold but she didn't want to move. Her uterus gave another dull throb but she wasn't worried anymore. “I'm going to take care of you,” he promised. She drifted off to sleep.

 

 

 

The heat aboveground did not abate for months, the nausea for longer still. Humans called this morning sickness, she thought of it as sleepsickness. Her body constantly wanted to sleep, but if she slept she wasn't eating, and if she wasn't eating she would wake up sick as a dog. She felt like all she did was eat and try to stay awake. The Doctor had canned applesauce for her and kept a steady supply of bananas and crackers in the cupboards. He made her ginger tea, which didn't help in the slightest. She would graze all day, struggling to force herself to swallow more food that her body would only reject.  If she fell asleep, even for half an hour, she would wake up gagging. She carried her sickbucket everywhere, never knew when her stomach would rebel. As time passed the nausea grew worse, not better. She couldn't focus well enough to read, she couldn't enjoy tea, she couldn't take a hot bath to soothe her sore abdominal muscles, she knew she had dropped a full stone in weight if not more.

Until one cool morning when she woke in the Doctor's arms and miraculously didn't need to lunge for the edge of the bed so she could empty her stomach. His mind was cool and quiet against her own, his eyelids fluttering with some unseen dream that tickled her nose nonsensically. She needed to pee. She felt hungry for the first time since her heat. She tried to work the math in her head, count the days, but they had all run together. Her mind was uncertain, couldn't grasp. She prodded at the Doctor's shoulder. He rolled over onto his back, muttering under his breath. She called his true name; his eyes flashed open.

"What's wrong?" he gasped in Gallifreyan.

"What month is it?" she asked. He responded with something non-coherent, also in Gallifreyan. "Month?" she repeated, enunciating the Queen's English.

"September," he groaned, rubbing his eyes. "Almost October...midterms...." his muttering drifted off. A long beat. He propped himself up on his elbows abruptly, finally looking round. "You're not sick," he stated in surprise.

"I'm not sick," Missy confirmed.

 

 

 

The months dragged on. She wasn't sick, she wasn't showing, she felt perfectly normal if a little fogheaded. She was scared shitless. It was too early to feel the baby. She had only made it through the second sexamester once before, when pregnant with their daughter, now long deceased. As the months dragged by she tried to meditate, tried to read, tried to relax.  She couldn't think of anything but how she was going to lose her baby and the Doctor would blame her and she would want to kill the entire universe for the unfairness of it.

Christmas morning, she let the Doctor sleep in. Seven months in, slowly coming up on eight, well into the second sexamester, nearly a quarter of the way through. She couldn't bear this tension anymore, this stress. She worried so much that she surely would cause her body to spontaneously abort. She tried to hide from the Doctor, didn't let him see her tears, but she knew that he knew. He felt everything that she was feeling with their bond open like this, so strong that he probably knew what she was feeling across campus, and she knew his work had suffered. It wasn't fair to him, either. She decided.

He awoke alone, breakfast having just finished baking. She was still setting the cafe table, wanted everything to look perfect. His hair was everywhere as he strolled across the room blurry eyed to give her a good morning kiss. He stared at her expectantly, as if he already knew.

"I'm keeping it, but..." she hesitated, terrified of how he would respond. "I've put things on hold for now," she confessed. The silence stretched between them. "I just need more time..."

"Okay," he responded, kissing her again. She pulled away, needing his eyes:

"Okay?" she confirmed, surprised. He wrapped her in his arms and held her:

"It's okay," he soothed. "We're okay. Take as long you need."

The tears came as easily as breathing to her.

"Thank you," she breathed.

 

 

 

Her brain remained foggy. Her body felt normal, and she tried to make herself forget it all and just live a normal life. She had the Doctor tuck all the medical texts away on the top shelf of the bookcase where she couldn't reach. She got used to herbal tea. She slept on her stomach, and read new novels that the Doctor brought her, and gradually got better at meditating again. Months slid past, and she cherished the Doctor's company, his simple affection free of mindless passion, his maddening patience. He never pressed her. She would wake to find his hand cupping her still flat belly and she would allow herself a few moments to wonder  _what if?_ but they didn't speak of the baby. She knew that he wanted her to let it thrive, to meet it, but he made himself be content to wait. He was more concerned for her than for himself and it touched her beyond words.

He started telling her about his adventures while they had been apart. She knew of many of them, but not all the details as he recounted them, sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears glistening in his eyes, often with exaggeration. The stories didn't come in any particular order, one day he would tell her about the one with curlier hair and worse fashion sense than he currently had, next her stubborn, wayward husband, and then one about the fool with the scarf or the flirt with the pinstripes and stupid sneakers. They didn't talk about how she envied his pets, felt intense jealousy towards Romana and River, or how deeply she missed Susan. He never told the stories that she had been in. But he gradually shared more and more of his past self with her, until she felt that she quite knew him better than she had already known she did.

The weeks passed steadily, growing into months, into years. Her love for him deepened, shifted from wanting to get all she could from him, from demanding as much of his attention as he would give, to wanting to make him happy. She didn't cook and clean up after him with quiet exasperation but with tender affection. He worked so hard. He had given up so much to stay with her here, to stop wandering in his Tardis. She should do more, she wanted to do more.

It had been five years since her last heat, just the blink of an eye in the lifespan of a Time Lord, but an eternity to make him wait just the same. She made a big dinner, trying to recreate some of the tastes of their homeworld as best as she could with the foods Earth had to offer. She tucked her corset into the back of the wardrobe and tried on the new dresses that he had bought her before...before she had put the baby on hold. It was still too soon for her to wear them, they looked ridiculous on her still flat torso, but she chose one that flattered even as it left room for a bump she didn't yet possess. And she sat waiting for him, her hands pressed to her flat stomach, a smile on her face.

Baby. Part of him for her to cherish and protect and guide. She loved it so much, couldn't wait to find out if it was a boy or a girl, what it would look like and smell like and be.

She could feel the Doctor coming home to her, breathless and impatient. She stood before the door that shut the outside world out, her in, and smiled as he burst into their home, all nerves and excitement. He dropped his briefcase and swept her up into his arms, kissing her over and over again, spinning them in place.

"Really?" he asked. "Do you mean it?"

"Yes," she breathed, laughing against his lips, "yes, it's time."

"A baby," he rejoiced, grinning down at her, hands tangled in her hair. "Our baby." His hands pressed to her flat belly as he knelt before her, pressing his face to her waist in adoration. "I can hardly wait."

"I know," she agreed. "Me either."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am on Tumblr as [geekns](http://geekns.tumblr.com) where i fangirl about Doctor Who, Marvel, Reylo, etc. Don't be surprised if you find out that i'm a huge geek.
> 
> I feel like apologizing that this chapter is so short...which is nuts because it's something like 4.5k words. Only i went back and looked at all my chapter wordcounts and i think two chapters were 5k words and chapter 6 is a hefty 7k+. So i'm going to aim for my chapters to be between 4k-5k words and to be updating at least weekly. Not that i can make any promises...but i seem to be holding steady atm.


	9. March 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy's pregnancy continues to progress (more alien symptoms and side effects) and someone pays a visit to the Vault. (Spoilers! it's Ainley!Master!) Oh...and more lemons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: Missy is 17 months pregnant in this chapter (equivalent to ~19 weeks) and i imagine her carrying very small like this.  
>    
>  (src: https://scottsdale.citymomsblog.com/2010/07/19/the-belly-diaries-19-weeks-pregtastic-podcasts/)
> 
> Yes, that's right, 17 months. In Doctor Mysterio the Doctor thought Grant was 36 when he was 8. So I did the math and figured that it takes ~4x as long to cook a Time Baby up and grow them to adulthood. That translates to three years of pregnancy. Thirty-six months. A Time Lord that looks 16 to us is ~64. I have no regrets.

She was reading when she heard a familiar grinding wheezing from just outside the Vault. She marked her place, slipped her black patent leather low pumps back on, and rose to make tea. She idly wondered why the Doctor had come downstairs in his Tardis rather than on foot but was pleased that he'd come to check on her just the same. He could have chosen to telepathically communicate with her from his office or classroom, especially when they were so closely bonded, but never did. He still rarely practiced his telepathy. She wasn't sure if he was trying to retain autonomy or if he simply didn't see the point after living so long amongst humans.

Lately, he'd made it a habit to find spare moments in his day to pay her a visit though, to make sure that she's feeling well and not overexerting herself and generally hovering and making a nuisance of himself. Not that she minded. She hadn't been particularly expecting him today but it pleased her that he was so attentive...even if it was only for the sake of the baby. He wanted to know the moment she could sense its mind awakening... which was likely to be a few weeks off yet.

He was certainly taking his time opening the doors today though. What could be keeping him? He and Nardole had a maintenance rota of course but didn't usually attend to it at this time on a schoolday. There were too many curious eyes about after all. Perhaps he needed tools from the Tardis to fix a particular issue? Maybe he wasn't planning to visit her at all and had only ventured downstairs because there was an emergency with the Vault locks. Which made her want to sulk because all of it was ridiculous. She was perfectly capable of opening the door at any time. No amount of tinkering or failsafes could keep her contained. She felt she had proven that she wanted to stay by now, had no reason to leave: not in the middle of her therapy, with things left unfinished, and certainly not while playing house with the Doctor. She had him right where she wanted him after all. The Doctor was actually paying attention to her for once.

But if it made the Doctor feel better about their arrangement by pretending that he was keeping her locked up then she might as well continue to humor him. She just wished that he wouldn't tinker when she actually felt quite needy at the moment. She felt a certain sort of restlessness that made her want to keep him close by. It wasn't boredom or because she needed anything in particular. But she did feel vulnerable, as if his only real concern was the baby, not her, and she wasn't quite ready to face that. She carried the tea tray to the tea table, setting up their teacups and the biscuits just so, retrieved her book, and sat to wait, trying to reimmerse herself in the story.

 

She was still waiting five minutes later. She could easily sense the Doctor relatively nearby: completely at ease, no stress, no worries, engrossed in his work, busy. But something felt off. She stood, pacing, forcing herself not to panic. Panic would not do at all. She was probably being ridiculous. She stepped in front of the closed doors, her eyelids drifting shut, fingertips lifting to her temples, and concentrated.

The Doctor...was in his office, not outside the Vault. He was startled by the touch of her mind against his own, had dropped what he was doing, was already on his way to investigate. Her telepathic feelers shifted to the room outside her home, thinking perhaps Nardole had moved the Tardis instead... But no, he was not the one outside the Vault either. She probed more deeply, finding a weakly shielded mind, Time Lord, distinct in its own way: insane and conniving and intimately familiar. She took a step backward. The Vault doors opened finally and the Master strolled in, a smile plastered on his face.

“Ah, tea,” he said by way of greeting. “So nice of you to play mother.”

He swept past her to the tea table, flipped his coat tails up behind himself, and sat down without invitation. She slowly retraced her steps, calmly regarding him as he took his gloves off and set them on the table before draping a handkerchief over his lap and making sure his ostentatious collar was still turned up. She sat down across from him in her own chair, a tight smile on her lips, her hands perfectly steady as she reached for the teapot. Her temples throbbed as he studied her with frank curiosity but she ignored his mental probing, allowing his mind to slide off her shields.

“How are you?” she asked politely as she poured. “Still flirting with the Doctor I presume.”

“Oh, of course, I just left him on the cusp of an Ice Age and stole his Tardis only for it to unexpectedly bring me here.” He laughed as if he had done something clever or as if everything was going his way. Which was baseline for him. “Well imagine my surprise when I found _you_ imprisoned here instead of the silly girls I was expecting to find in a tomb. What a clever joke, deliberately staying in such a pathetic prison.”

His memories were fresh in his mind and easy for her to read while she reached for the sugar tongs. He had been expending a lot of telepathic energy in his recent past, hypnotism and all that, so his shields weren't as strong as he assumed. Not to her. It was easy enough for her to suss out when he was practically bragging, in fact he clearly wanted her to know. He'd just traveled through the time contour, trying to enter the tomb of the Xeraphin and was hoping to steal parts from the Doctor's Tardis for their own... while stranding the Doctor in the past for good measure. And he had far more hostages under his thumb than he had had at Castrovalva, so that brought him a special sort of glee. The Master was having a good day. Commiserating with her over their shared hatred of the Doctor was just icing on his cake.

"The Doctor does love to keep his pets around," she agreed as she doctored their tea. "I think it makes him feel impressive to have someone to show off to."

The Master barked in laughter in response. Missy smiled, passing him his tea, fixed just the way they liked it: milk, a hint of sugar, and thinly veiled malice. His laughter ground to a halt, he balked at the sight:

“Herbal, really?”

“Doctor's orders,” Missy responded, rolling her eyes. “You'll get used to it eventually.” He laughed again, as if she had told a hilarious joke, but without any real mirth this time. He liked to laugh even more than she did.

“If you say so,” he allowed, taking a biscuit and soaking it in his tea for a few moments before taking a bite. She found the practice rather childlike and not at all endearing. Had she really done that? Whatever for? And what had eventually put her off the habit?

He crinkled his nose as he took in her appearance, her usual purple outfit temporarily retired. She was currently wearing a white silk blouse with short puffed sleeves--classy, not frumpy, roomy enough for her stomach to expand a good while yet--over black dress trousers. It was not entirely unlike his own attire, though she had no need of a jacket in the Vault and unless she was very much mistaken he had no need of an under-bump waistband (as the Doctor had called it). She remembered that he also wore a white vest under his black jacket...which sported puffed sleeves. So she was not dressed as smartly as was her wont but she certainly did not look shabby next to her predecessor. He'd just shed a disguise after all. He almost looked her mirror image. Perhaps he thought she looked drab without a cloak or decorative high collar or unfinished with so few layers. It was, in fact, unlike her. Light and airy garments suited her best during pregnancy, pleasing drape and plenty of air circulation. Stiff fabrics felt like armor and usually suited her best but she'd have to abandon them for a good while yet. Which left her feeling exposed under her predecessor's stare.

He turned his attention to other things in the room. “So what is your plan?” he inquired gaily as he took in the eclectic decor. “Murder? Mayhem? Betray the Doctor's trust, I presume? Murder his pets?”

“Yes quite,” she agreed, stirring her own tea. “I've been working on him quite a while now.” She took a sip, her eyes locked on her current prey.

“How long has he thought you to be locked up?” her former self asked, brushing crumbs out of his goatee and reaching for another biscuit, holding it in the tea for even longer this time.

“Long enough to have him eating out of my hand,” she bragged, gently sliding the plate of biscuits closer to him. She baked the sweets for the Doctor. She couldn't explain why they didn't appeal to her at present but baby seemed to be partial to spicy foods.

“I don't suppose you'd like a little team up?” the Master offered. “I do always love to play with new faces...they're so adorably confused at first, make the best faces.”

“Come, now,” she interrupted. “You can't possibly expect me to share, can you? I mean, my plan would have to be scrapped entirely, and then we'd have to flee, and we'd be forced to come up with a new plan all over again. It would be ever so inconvenient. And the face isn't new to _him_ , just to you.”

“A pity, I'd like to add a notch to my belt,” he hmphed, wiping his mouth off with his handkerchief and pushing his tea aside. He picked up a third biscuit, slowly flipping it over as he considered: “Tell me, just which version are you toying with?”

“Don't be silly, he's one from your future,” she evaded, fear sliding down her spine like ice. That sort of foreknowledge just wouldn't do, not that he could retain it once this meeting was over. Not if she had anything to say about it.

There was a bump at the Vault's hatch, the whirring of the sonic screwdriver. The Doctor was starting to undo the damage the Master had done and break his way in. The Master looked from the door and back to her. Her temples twinged again as he tried again to penetrate her shields: “How long have you been stuck in prehistoric Earth's past?” she inquired, hoping to distract him, perhaps a touch too flippant. She knew exactly how long it had been.

“Too long,” he admitted, biting into his biscuit, crumbs scattering across his lap. His hand wobbled as he brushed crumbs onto her clean floor. “Long enough to miss our baking, which is quite as good as I remembered.” Missy ducked her head obligingly in acknowledgment of his compliment. “I've been _very_ _bad_. Lots of mind control and toying with the ants. And of course I've had to invent a new device for the problem at hand.” Missy allowed herself a giggle:

“Course you have,” she smiled. “Don't we always?” His smile had taken on a forced edge; hers probably had as well. The Doctor had shown up rather earlier than he had been expecting. He briefly considered whether he might have missed a silent alarm...then thought better of it.

“How are you _here_?” he asked, as if puzzling over a great mystery. He dusted his fingers off, then reached for his gloves to pull them back on. “I only mean...I'm currently in possession of the Doctor's Tardis and have utterly defeated him. I fully intend to leave him stranded billions of years in the past...” he seemed to consider: “or kill him perhaps. Depending on how I feel after looting the tomb and disposing of the workers.”

“Of course you do, but your heart isn't really in it, is it now?” she stated casually, pretending to examine her nails, watching him from under hooded eyes.

“Excuse me?” he gasped, as if he couldn't believe what she had just said. The drama queen.

“Well, you _act_ like you want to kill him,” she explained, more slowly this time so he couldn't miss a word. “You _try_ to betray him, but you never do quite manage it, do you? You get over your head, you agree to work with him. Things go wrong so often that it's almost as if you aren't really trying.”

“How dare you,” he sputtered indignantly, standing abruptly.

“There, there, there's no use lying to yourself,” Missy soothed. He started to pace nervously. She set one foot after the other up on the seat of his vacated chair, the perfect picture of relaxed comfort. The perfect lie. “The Doctor always wins...no matter how many times we try. And you live for the game. You put all of your heart and soul in it, not for the coercion or destruction, though they're certainly diverting enough. It's not about winning, it's about control.”

He was looking around the room again as she spoke, no doubt noting its accoutrements. The Doctor's morning newspaper was still on the coffee table. The covers on the bed were slightly rumpled from her early afternoon nap. There were books and papers strewn about, both hers and the Doctor's. A packet of crackers sat on her nightstand in case she got peckish. It wasn't the Vault's tidiest, it had a distinctly lived-in feel. He paced in a sedate circle around her, considering. “I have control of the Doctor,” she assured him.

“He's taken your Tardis and you're biding your time until you can steal it back?” he guessed.

“No, that's very cold, very cold,” she informed, her smile changing into something frightening for mere mortals to look at. The Doctor still hadn't the slightest idea where her Tardis was.

“You're waiting for someone like me to rescue you?” She raised an eyebrow in disbelief:

“Arctic,” she pronounced with ice in her tone. How dare he. Trust a man to presume...

“Have you...” he stammered. “You can't mean to stay. Surely you haven't surrendered to him?” She took a sip of tea, savoring the taste before swallowing, fighting her body's deathly quiet insistence that she needed to flee. The Mistress did not flee, she faced danger head on and laughed at it.

“It may seem unlikely right now,” she demurred, “but there comes a time when your version of the game quite loses its appeal.”

“Never,” he declared, suddenly brandishing his Tissue Compression Eliminator. She had been expecting this:

“Oh, hello,” she exclaimed, her countenance and voice the height of playful calm. “Thought you'd bring that antique out?”

“Antique?!?” he sputtered.

“You didn't even design that toy, poppet,” she crooned. “No, a far greater Master than you did that, and you don't even properly understand how it works.” His hand shook but he didn't deign to respond. “I _know_ you,” she declared, emphasizing each word. “I know _all_ your hopes and dreams, how inferior you feel, how empty and lost. You're not even in a proper body. You'd kill to get the Doctor where you want him... _and you have_.”

She genuinely smiled at him for the first time: “Doesn't it just enrage you that I have the Doctor _exactly_ where I want him and _all_ of your little intrigues have failed?” She maintained her calm demeanor as she returned her focus to the TCE, watching his hand continue to shake. He didn't even hold it right.

“I...” he sputtered, dropping the TCE. “You...” He tried to stop his dominant hand from shaking by holding his wrist with his other hand, but found that he couldn't maintain his grip on that either. He stared at his gloved hands as if they were completely alien.

“Night-night,” Missy crooned. The Master's eyes rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed, out like a light. Missy licked the crumbs off her fingers as the Vault doors finally opened, allowing the Doctor and Nardole to dash into the room only to find...the Master snoring on the floor. “Hello Doctor, Egbert,” she greeted them brightly. “Took you long enough.”

The Doctor kicked the TCE away from the Master's prostrate form, then knelt down to check his pulse. Missy rolled her eyes. She wasn't an idiot; she'd wasn't about to commit suicide.

“What did you do?” Nardole demanded.

“What makes you assume that I _did_ anything?” she asked. “Maybe he was just in desperate need of a nap.”

“Missy,” the Doctor reprimanded gently, standing to his full height. She sighed, lowering her feet, adjusting her posture to seem less threatening, forcing her body to relax in increments:

“I put a sedative in his tea,” she confessed matter of factly. “Not enough for him to taste...and we hate herbal so he barely had any. But it is a powerful sedative properly applied,” she pinched the bridge of her nose, wincing, wishing her headache would abate. She couldn't take anything for it.

The Doctor stared at her, seemed to know that she was leaving part of her brilliant plan out. Things hadn't been all that easy. She'd had to think on her feet and improvise: “Oh I made fun of him a little bit so he would get angry.” The Doctor rolled his eyes, pacing now, giving expression to the adrenaline as she hadn't been able to. “The adrenaline makes it work faster,” she explained. Unlike the Doctor, she was keeping her breathing under perfect control, slow and calm. He was going to hyperventilate if he didn't get his panic under control.

“He could have killed you, did you think of that?” he shot back angrily.

“Would serve her right,” Nardole intoned nastily. She allowed herself to look offended:

“The adults are talking, be nice,” Missy scolded.

“Nardole, take him back to the Tardis,” the Doctor ordered.

“He looks awfully heavy to carry all that way alone,” Nardole complained, hands on his hips. “I think the students would notice.” He gradually became aware that the Doctor was staring at him as if he were an idiot.

“The Tardis that's parked right outside the Vault,” he clarified. "Your key will work."

“Oh... right. But I don't want to miss all the scolding...” he whinged.

“Nardole!”

“Okay, if you insist.” The longsuffering cyborg bent down and grabbed the Master's ankles, tugging him towards the Vault's front entrance. Only entrance, she had checked once. Missy calmly stared straight ahead, sipping her tea, ignoring all of the ridiculous men in the room. The Doctor knelt down to pick up the TCE, set it on the table, then sat down across from her heavily, dropping his face into his hands.

“He could have caught you and used it,” he muttered into his palms, then dropped them. “Did you even think of that?”

“The trick, my dear, is not thinking about the poisoning while you're doing it, and thinking about anything but, although...” she played with her teacup handle momentarily, “he did figure out that I had called you.”

“Oh, he did?”

“You got here too fast for it _not_ to seem suspicious,” she confirmed, pouring another cup of tea into her own empty cup and adding one less sugar than he liked before passing it over to him, sliding the Master's cup out of the way. “He said something about your Tardis bringing him here unexpectedly...” she drifted off, noticing that he was staring at her accusingly: “You seriously think I would sedate you?” she asked, fluttering her eyes innocently rather than playing indignant. As if she hadn't made tea for him thousands of times since they'd come to this arrangement. "I'm hurt."

“Yes, _I do_ ,” he confirmed. “Especially if it means avoiding this conversation.”

“I would never,” she whined. “I'm starting to feel as if you don't even trust me.”

“Good,” he shot back. “I'm _very_ angry with you. You _should_ be feeling ashamed of yourself, or distrusted at the very least.”

“I _know_ ,” she whined back. Though she was not entirely sure _why,_ what made this infraction so bad. That same question posed itself unbidden: was he worried about the baby more than her? He must be. “But I kept the baby safe, I handled it on my own. I didn't kill him or even cause permanent damage...I followed all of your rules!”

“Deception is not one of my rules,” he objected. She rolled her eyes at that fib. How she could be expected to be truthful with the Master was beyond her. There were timelines to think about and she was better at lying at herself than anyone else. “But you're completely missing the main concern. _How_ did he find you here?” the Doctor demanded.

Surely she didn't believe that he'd done anything to attract attention?!? “Now I have to run a full system diagnostic, make sure the telepathic dampening field is working properly, ensure you haven't tampered with the controls and somehow sent out a message. You shouldn't have even been able to contact _me_ , let alone _him_ , which makes all of this even worse!”

“Well the TDF's _never_ worked,” she scoffed, surprised that he had no idea, but clearly he hadn't going by his expression and the level of terror he was ratcheting up to. “I can feel the same students and professors walk by every day. Oglesby is excited to retire at the end of the term, twenty-four years under his belt as I recall. Maybe you'll get his office, it's so much nicer than yours.” The Doctor's mouth wasn't working suddenly. He kept sputtering, trying to formulate a coherent response. Not only was she reading casual passerby without oversight, she was keeping tabs on him. Listening in on private thoughts that he had when he thought himself to be in private. 

She leaned forward to touch his hand sympathetically: “I would never tamper with the mind of anyone on campus,” she assured him. “I'm _not_ trying to draw attention to myself, I'm not scheming, I _promise_.”

“How far?” he demanded, his voice deathly quiet.

“Well, outside to the benches,” she vaguely gestured in their general direction. “To your office, of course.”

“My office?” he whispered.

“Oh, and with the baby my range naturally extends itself as a defense mechanism,” she informed him. “Right now I can barely reach the theater where you have your weekly lecture, it should extend further over the next couple...”

“You listen to my lectures?” he interrupted. She sighed, rubbing her temples this time, breathing deeply because she was starting to get nauseous. Stupid headache.

“I used to,” she agreed. “There's not much point anymore, what with the repeats.” He stared at her, mouth set in a hard line. She'd managed to make him even angrier. Was he scared that she would think his job a joke? “You seem to have them memorized,” she commented. “I know I have...” She reached for his tea, hoping that would help the pounding, threw it back in one go, grimaced at the overwhelming taste of sugar. She set the teacup back down in its saucer upside down, not unlike a shot glass. Another forbidden fruit to mourn the loss of in a situation like this. She could do with a stiff drink.

“Sedative, give it to me,” he demanded quietly. She opened the sugar bowl, plucked the tiny vial out of the cubes with her nails, and held it out to him, palm up. He snatched it out of her hand and stood, looming over her. “Is there anything else you'd like to tell me?” he asked heavily.

“He needs to be getting back to prehistoric London soon,” she informed him, ignoring his temper. “It wouldn't do for him to miss his appointment.” She thought a moment longer: “Baby's heartrate wasn't affected by my adrenaline rush, though...” her mind turned inward, forcing herself to ignore the raging pain in her skull.

She could sense a flutter deep within. It was too early, she had at least a month to go yet before it should even be possible and yet...there it was again, a fluttering...or bubbles. She _had_ just had sugar but... No, it was impossible.

“Missy,” the Doctor demanded softly, pulling her out of her internal debate. He was on his knees before her, holding her face in his hands, a worried expression having finally replaced his resigned, angry one. He was scared as ever. How long had she zoned out?

“I think I can feel the baby move,” she blurted out, so surprised that all eloquence had been shocked out of her. She had been aware of its presence for years now, but this was different, this was evidence that the baby was actually thriving. She didn't usually get this far before... She gradually realized her own hands were cupped over her womb, over the little paunch that was still so small that not even the Doctor could tell that she was showing. No wonder she had given him a fright.

She wasn't showing, not really. Her skirt didn't fit, but that was down to bloating more than baby's growth. Her new lightweight trousers were more to take pressure off her hypersensitive skin than to give baby more room to grow. Her purple skirt was simply too heavy and constricting, this waistband would support her as she grew, felt like air on her skin. Still, she shouldn't be able to feel the baby at all yet, it was completely improbable: “It must be gas,” she tried to convince herself.

Her eyes met the Doctor's. His baby blues were wet with unshed tears. “I'm not sure,” she confessed. Her hearts fell, and she dropped her head in shame: he surely assumed that she was just being manipulative... “shouldn't have said anything.” He nodded, hiding his face, perhaps embarrassed that he wasn't in better control of his emotions. She hated it when he hid from her.

He stood, turning his back to her, leaving a great void between them despite how close he stood as he retrieved the sedative and weapon from the table, throat working compulsively as he fought to decide whether he wanted to get angry again or just allow himself to be scared. She sympathized entirely, it was far from easy to ignore insistent, raging pregnancy hormones. Their strengthening bond ensured that he would be affected by her moods, helped build the trust and support that she needed to get through this long-term investment of extra resources. She knew he was having trouble coping after her hormones had gone from subdued during the stasis to full-blown nearly instantly.

But tea...tea always helped. He reached for the teacup before him, throwing it back before she could stop him. She was already on her feet, hand on his wrist, the warning caught in her throat. He grimaced, turning to face her in annoyance:

“Why are there crumbs in my tea?” he asked. The cup slid out of his hand, falling to the floor along with the vial and TCE, porcelain shattering, polyether ether ketone clattering against the floor. Missy was already doing most of the work keeping him upright as he staggered like a drunk man. “Wha's happening?” he asked as she struggled to maneuver him towards his chesterfield chair. The delicate wooden chairs they had been using for teatime would not do to support his sagging form.

She just barely managed to get him aimed in the right direction in time for him to collapse entirely, head lolling to the side, hands starting to shake compulsively in his lap. He was a right mess of adrenaline and he'd had a larger dose than her predecessor. Fear and doubt crashed over him, amplified even further by the drug. She crawled into his lap, straddling his legs, held his head up for him tenderly. “Mi...” he barely got out, failing to get her name out name properly. She shushed him:

“I've got you,” she promised him. “Best to just let it take you now.”

He moaned deep in his chest, with all his being.

“I know, sweetheart, I know...” she held his face to her shoulder, fingertips running through his hair soothingly. “You can yell at me when you wake up.” She could feel his mind slipping away from her. Nearly instantly he was snoring heavily, drooling all over her new blouse. She sighed, continuing to pet him affectionately, fingertips raking through his majestic hair.

“What did you do?!?” Nardole demanded somewhere nearby.

“Scheisse,” she muttered under her breath. This didn't look good.

 

 

 

He woke gradually, his limbs heavy with sleep or...he should be remembering something. His head felt like it was stuffed full of cotton candy, his thoughts stretching out of shape like salt taffy. But there had been something important...

“Miss...” his voice came out as a low rasp.

“There you are,” Nardole tutted as if he'd wandered off. The Doctor continued to take stock as the cyborg approached, realizing that he seemed to be in their bed...on Missy's side. “Don't you worry, I got our visitor and his weapon back in that old Tardis and he's already left. No harm done.”

Visitor? The Master. He had wanted to telepathically scan his memories of the Vault break-in. Too late for that now.

He tried to sit up but failed spectacularly. His body mostly ignored him. He could barely focus. He wanted to go back to sleep. He needed to be with Missy.

“Doctor, are you well?” Missy asked, her voice farther off than he had been expecting or wanted. He managed to lift his head just enough to blearily make out her indefinite form hovering just inside the containment field. He allowed his head to fall back into his pillow, head spinning. _Mate in danger, mate scared_ , fizzled across all of his synapses and nerves. He seemed to be down for the count.

“I told you to be quiet,” Nardole told her coldly.

“Let 'er out,” the Doctor ordered quietly, his voice still scratchy and barely audible. His entire body twitched again as he tried and failed once more to sit up, to stand, to go to his mate.

“But sir!”

“Jus' do...” his thoughts sliding away from him midsentence. Need mate. Nardole was all frowny as he waddled out of frame, disappearing long enough to comply. Missy was by his side moments later, hands shaking as she took his pulse before running her fingers through his hair, mind muted but insistent against his own, reassuring herself that he was okay. She had cuffs on her wrists, the vinyl coated cabling between them kept smacking him in the nose. The telepathic null affects should have rendered her psychic abilities useless and yet there her mind was against his, insistent, soothing, strong, desperate.

“I'm sorry,” was the first thing she said. “I wasn't sure you'd be okay,” she confessed, voice barely above a whisper, which explained why she was currently beside herself. “I didn't mean for you to...” she cut herself off, glancing at Nardole. _Not meant for humans_ , her mind whispered.

He easily tuned into her torrential thoughts, his own telepathy having intuitively strengthened when he had realized that she wasn't with him, wide awake in the face of danger, perhaps in part due to the fact that his body was mostly ignoring him. Who was he kidding, he could only hear Missy because she was brilliant and able to reach even his addled, half-human mind.

He allowed her thoughts to wash over him, taking them as the came in real time... The Master's metabolism had made short work of her masterpiece's effects, had been designed to only temporarily incapacitate herself. She wasn't completely sure how a hybrid's metabolism would react, how it would affect him, her Doctor. She'd never tested it. He was the only test subject at her disposal and it wasn't worth risking, no matter how slight the chance of side effects. Remorse, heavy and genuine, held her in its clutches. Tears were falling from her face onto his.

“Okay,” he whispered. _I'm okay_ , he assured her. “Cuffs,” he grunted slightly more loudly.

“Doctor, I must protest with most firm tones in the insistence that you not set her free,” Nardole objected again, as if he was planning to let Missy out the Vault. He actually stamped his foot for good measure. The Doctor shot a glare in the cyborg's general direction, still not quite able to bring him into focus:

“Cuffs,” he insisted.

Nardole sighed but stepped forward, wrestling to unlock the contraption while Missy refused to let go of the Doctor's face. A haze lifted and like a peaceful river Missy's mind settled into his own, filling in the cracks, tenderly embracing him. He sighed at the intensity of it. She sat down on the bed beside him, reaching for his hands. She wasn't sure how much affection was permissible in front of his assistant, especially after what she had done, and hovered fretfully even as their minds rubbed against one another with ease. She continued to send comfort and inquiring worry, soothing undulations heightening...

He gasped, a weak but pleasant sort of telepathic orgasm sparking across his mind in satisfaction. She hadn't done that in a long while, time too long to contemplate, and he'd missed it. She's always delighted in doing it in public, trying to embarrass him. He felt his affection for her deepening despite his better judgement. It was all instinctual hormonal reactions in response to her distress during pregnancy, but he didn't mind it just the same. Nardole cleared his throat:

“So I take it you don't want me...”

“No,” the Doctor interrupted, hoping he wasn't flushing red as he realized what Nardole had just unknowingly witnessed. Out of sight, out of mind.

“Right,” the Cyborg turned to go. “I'll just stand watch outside, shall I?” he moped.

“Yes,” he barked in confirmation. “Fix locks,” he managed. The Master had left them a mess as he recalled.

“Don't know why I even bother trying,” Nardole muttered to himself. “No one appreciates me.” And then he was gone, the Vault a private sanctum once more, and Missy was straddling him, pawing at his clothes, her mouth insistent against his own.

“Is this okay?” she asked as she unbuttoned his waistcoat, his vest, mouth hot on his earlobe, nibbling.

“Please,” he petitioned, almost managing to writhe beneath her, skin desperate for more contact. Her pelvis rocked against his as she loosened his tie just enough to ease it over his head, and then she slid away from where he wanted to feel her, where she had been pressed against his burgeoning erection. Her hands landed on his belt and trouser fly with clear intention. She made quick work of them. He tried to lift his hips but couldn't manage it in the slightest.

She managed to free his dick at least and get his trousers mostly out of the way, pulled down to his knees. She stroked his penis encouragingly a couple of times, thumb flicking over his frenulum in that way that drove him wild, and he threw his head back in delighted appreciation. He could practically feel her hormones wafting over his exposed flesh, heightening the sensations between them, her hands the focal point as she pressed trembling fingers to his cock, his stomach, his hips.

And then her hands were gone, wrenching an embarrassing whimper out of him. She had to climb off him to take off her own trousers and knickers. She kicked her shoes off impatiently, allowed the fabric to drop down her hips to the floor, and eased her blouse over her head to reveal heaving breasts straining against white polysilk. He didn't care if it was a plain bra, she looked like a goddess. This bra had fit her perfectly when he'd bought it mere weeks ago and now it had to be agony against her expanding nipples. Her breasts were finally starting to change, to grow, to prepare themselves to produce the milk that would feed their baby. He would never have expected himself to be a breast man (he was a mind man, dammit) but she was turning him into a convert.

She draped her blouse over the bedknob and returned to him, climbing back into his lap and rubbing her peachy sex up against his proud staff. At least part of his body was working. She lifted his hands to her bra-covered breasts, pressing them into his palms, hissing at the contact. She undulated against his cock next, lifting her hips over his, sliding her slick arousal against weeping head, teasing. She was _so wet_.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any better than this and he could happily die right now, she was slowly yet steadily sliding down onto his very happy cock. So happy. She winced at the stretch. They hadn't done this in nearly six very long years. She was so tight around him that he thought that he was going to lose it before they'd even started. His hands fell to her hips, holding on for dear life as she willed her body to relax. He gasped for air, chest still not working quite right. “Mistress,” he petitioned, hips trying to flex up into her against his own judgment but not managing to do more than press a single haphazard nudge further into her tight channel.

She gasped, taking deep breaths as she started playing with her flaccid clit. He had no doubt her actions were pleasurable but at this point in her pregnancy her clit was a non-starter. It wasn't the sort of pleasure he desperately wanted to be able to give her, so he persisted in trying to buck beneath her. He only managed the slightest of movements, the head of his cock nudging around ineffectively. He growled in frustration. His desperation to pleasure her, to be involved, grew while she almost carried on without him, steadily stroking her clit in a way that was causing her to pant in pleasure and her entire decolletage to flush a delicious shade of pink. Watching her pleasure herself right in front of him like this was...mind-blowing.

"Need you," he groaned. 

And then she wrapped her hand around the base of his cock and circled her hips. She ground down against him, causing more friction, more stretch. Her discomfort was gone leaving only bliss. She was making the most erotic little noises as she used his body to give herself pleasure, heightening the connection between them. She was his and he was hers. She was safe, he was alive, all was right in the universe. Protect. Nourish. Yen. Her movements gradually shifted to the give and take that his body was screaming for but she kept things gentle, unhurried. Her physicians in her previous pregnancies had always forbade this sort of activity until the end of the second sexamester. Missy had asked him to wait longer still. He was uncharacteristically excited to have sex back on the agenda.

Her hands roamed across his hips, stomach, and chest, scratching gently, rubbing the pheromones deeper into his skin. His abs clenched in anticipation, hips finally unlocking enough to rock up deeper into her with mellow strokes that sweetened their connection rather than drove them to completion. He managed to slide his left hand up her spine, holding though not truly supporting her as the desire heightened between them. She smelled exquisite. She was starting to get frustrated, was too sensitive and hesitant to ride him the way she desperately wanted to. She needed to feel alive and wanted and whole. He gradually managed to unhook her bra, ease it off her shoulders, and release her breasts to his gaze.

They hung heavily over his face, bobbing with her every undulation. Her nipples fascinated him most of all: pert tips proudly jutting out of swollen areolas. They'd darkened to a deep coral pink that looked delectable. He managed to cup one with his right hand, flicked his thumb over the erect tip of her nipple. She almost collapsed, had to brace herself against his chest to hold herself up.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Like that," she confirmed, resuming their former pace, snapping her hips with just a bit more oomph. She stared him in the eyes, unflinching, her expression open and unguarded. It was easy to find a stroke that she liked and set a counterpoint to her rhythm, his touch reverently gentle, her breasts amazingly responsive, moans dropping from her mouth with only a little coaxing. She threw her head back, whimpering, her hips faltering and picking up just a touch more speed again. She really needed his eyes, and he gave them to her, ignoring the majestic view in favor of losing himself in her icy gaze. She gasped and groaned, leaning back a little to change the angle. "So...close," she intoned, moan turning into a squeal as she fell apart around him, pelvis bucking erratically. He grabbed her hips, taking over the rhythm she had lost, desperate to keep her where she needed in order to draw her ecstasy out for as long as possible.

But her release had triggered his own, in a hormonal response far more than a physical one. His control was tenuous at best under the circumstances, and after a handful of thrusts he was losing all of his regained coordination and coherence, hands failing to properly cradle her as she collapsed onto his chest. His spend was a gentle wash across her womb rather than the insistent flood that her heats had triggered. She melted against his chest, panting, as he continued to rock up into her gently, spreading his spend around inside her so her body would recognize his commitment to his mate. Safety. Provision. _Thrive, baby, thrive._

Missy was shuddering now, his motions quickly turning over-stimulating. His knot remained quiescent, was wholly unnecessary here. The objective was no longer to impregnate, it was to be free to defend at a moment's notice. He stilled his hips' rocking beneath her, all of his focus shifting to coaxing his arms to wrap around her more effectively, to hold her to himself. Her eyes were open but she was staring off into nothing, gaze unseeing, telepathic senses tentatively flicking from mind to mind in the physical vicinity outside their Vault.

Now that he knew that she could sense the outside world he rather wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. His mind rode piggyback with hers as she assured herself that the Master was gone, that there was no threat nearby to harm her mate while he was still incapacitated. Her fault. Her right hand rubbed his chest, sliding through hair and sweat, her left hand clutched at his nape as if she was clinging to him for dear life. Her scope gradually widened until her mind was brushing against humans as far away as the quad and cafeteria, cutting through the telepathic dampening field that encased her like a hand through water. She was still on edge, wary even after bone-melting lovemaking. He was instantly overwhelmed with an atom-deep knowledge that she was going to make an amazing mother. No one could ever be more attentive and protective than her.

“Hey,” he whispered, pulling her attention back to their little bubble. Her blue eyes flicked up to meet his gaze. He smiled: “You were amazing today.”

Her brow furrowed in confusion. This did not compute to her at all, she was almost fragile with an overwhelming sense that she had fucked up beyond forgiveness. “You designed that cocktail, didn't you?” She hid her face against his chest in response. “You're aware of hundreds of minds when you should be essentially _blind_ right now,” he went on.

She hmphed in response, as if it was nothing amazing at all. Her mind had always impressed and terrified him. She could achieve anything she put her mind to, she saw so much that he couldn't, that no Time Lord could, made them all look like idiots. “You still put up with me,” he teased.

She lifted herself off his persistent erection, sliding her upper body against his, not breaking the connection between their chests one millimeter as she pressed her mouth against his to shut him up, their tongues tangling desperately. She tasted amazing, pheromones were brilliant. His cock was hardening even more, his skin was buzzing with pleasure, he wanted and needed her so much.

“I'm sorry,” she apologized against his mouth. Another kiss: “No, stop,” she rolled off him, away, curling up onto the bed, a ball of shame. “I can't,” she sobbed. He managed to roll onto his side and curl his body around hers in response, hand gently rubbing up and down her arm, pressing tender kisses against her nape, her spine.

“It's okay,” he told her. “It's okay if you're too sore..." He was slightly punchdrunk on her pheromones, his mind way ahead of either of their bodies. "And I owe you an apology... about before," he confessed. He had nearly bitten her head off over how she had handled the Master. "I may have overreacted a bit.” Her entire frame shook with silent laughter, giggles escaping despite her valiant effort.

“A bit?” she asked.

“How am I supposed to protect you against yourself?” he asked her honestly. “You drive me crazy, Missy.” She twisted in his arms, hands finding his face, mouth occupied with kissing once again. Her hormones cotinued to roll over him, equal parts sated and terrified, threatening to drown them, compelling him to verbal intimacy that still terrified him. “Mistress...” his voice broke, the chemicals between them impelling him to be honest with her for once, to be vulnerable: “Am I doing the right thing?”

How could he just let the Master go so easily when he knew that he left only to torture new victims? When he had been utterly terrified that the Master would kill her? The Doctor's continuing refusal to be stronger, break his own rules, to kill him...her...so no one else would suffer, made him a monster that was just as responsible for her crimes, if not moreso. She had been insane for long decades of time, he had always known better.

How could he let himself forgive her? It was unforgivable. It was the ultimate test of who he was. It was all that he wanted to teach her but didn't know how to convey. 

And yet...she felt his mind as clear as her own. They were separate yet the same, two parts of a whole. She saw into his mind as easily as breathing, that was part of the curse of the heats and the pregnancy that followed, the forced intimacy, the absolute devotion. He couldn't fight his fealty, it was hardwired into his biological programming. She was everything to him.

“Try to understand,” she murmured, pressing her forehead to his. “I was willing to tear the galaxy apart to bring you back to me. I didn't care who I hurt to manage it because all I knew was that I love you and you love me, the rest of the universe be damned.” Love. The word was a curse, not a blessing. “But all of that is my fault, not yours. Every time you stopped me, I only fought harder. Every time you did the right thing, it only made me more determined to prove that your love was still real.”

“I will always love you,” he confessed against his will.

“I know,” she assured him. “Because that's how I feel, and we are the same. Only I was willing to destroy anyone who stood in my way, even you, at least that's what I told myself. I couldn't, not really. I could never destroy you because it would be just the same as destroying myself. What else would I have to live for?”

She let the silence stretch between them. “It's like someone who's suicidal,” she continued. “They can't go on for the pain. They don't want to die, they are screaming for help, for attention, for love. Only if no one hears them...”

“I heard, but I didn't listen,” he argued. She laughed again, wiping the tears off his face that he hadn't even known he had been crying.

“Listen to us argue about who is more to blame for this mess we've made.” The devotion and guilt in him had heightened, surely they couldn't sustain this. Why did her hormones drive them to this, he would have much rather run away or kept his guilt hidden. He knew that it was all his fault, there wasn't anything she could say to convince him otherwise. “You aren't listening,” she whispered to him, hands in his hair again, holding him tenderly as her words cut to the quick. “We are one. You are the heads, I am the tails. Like Janus looking to the past while he sails towards the future, we shape all destiny, good or bad, peace or war, hidden in plain sight. You cannot rescue your pets unless their safety is threatened by chaos and danger.”

And there was the trap that she had set him time and again, the net she had cast and entangled him in beyond extrication. He loved playing the hero even while he hated her setting the trap. Every time he thought she couldn't get more extraordinary, she surprised him. She's impossible. He hates it. She's evil. It's astonishing. He wanted to kiss her to death, to fuck her to life. So he had. And he did. And he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole a quote from Before the Flood. Remember how i was going to try to post chapters that were 4-5k words in length? This one pulls in at over 8k words. Maybe i should have split it in half?
> 
> When it comes to writing fanfic, i definitely have a process. I tend to be fairly critical/analytical of the media i consume and can get very meta about it. I can talk about it for hours if you get me started. That definitely comes into play, but what i really obsess over is the actors' voices. Bad dialogue can kill an otherwise good story stone dead. So i consume all the media i can from the actors i'm focusing on. This definitely means watching the show that the fic is based on... and sometimes tracking down all of the films and TV shows and plays that i can for a particular character. I've watched a little of Peter's work (compared to my usual obsessive level) and about all of Michelle's that i could get my hands (screen) on (save the Book Group since i don't really want to pay for Hulu). 
> 
> But like...that's not even the entire equation here. These characters go way back. So in preparation for this chapter, i watched four serials with Ainley and...the poor guy spends half his time in a cupboard laughing maniacally. Or assuming another character incognito (and being unrecognizable, i'm talking epic level compared to what they did with Simm in World Enough and Time). Most of the time TPTB were giving him nothing substantial to do as the actual Master, much like they did with Michelle most of her time on the show. And i ended up liking him more than i was expecting. But you can't get past Delgado. They really gave him the best content to work with and he originated the part. So i'm going to keep researching Ainley now that i've seen all of Delgado's episodes.
> 
> I'm on Tumblr as [geekns](http://geekns.tumblr.com) where i fangirl about Doctor Who, Marvel, Reylo, etc. Don't be surprised if you find out that i'm a huge geek.


	10. Anatomy of a Heartbreak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor begins a new research project. Nardole continues to be resistant to the Doctor's forgiveness towards Missy post-tea party. And heartbreak comes to the Vault in a new form. Warning: miscarriage, please see notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to avoid spoiling this chapter but even more I want to avoid offending those who may find this topic too sensitive to read about. So i'm warning everyone up front that this chapter contains a depiction of miscarriage.
> 
> I've known this was coming since I started writing this fic, i'm writing it to come to terms with my own barrenness, and i know that i can only imagine what it's like to actually lose a child. I thought i was pregnant a year ago and it turned out that i wasn't. 
> 
> The first section of this chapter is Nardole trying to put the Doctor in his place and, i hope, humorous. The second section is Missy's POV before and throughout the miscarriage. The third section is the Doctor's reaction to the miscarriage with science and avoidance/denial. 
> 
> I hope you can read all of it but understand if you can't. Feel free to ask in the comments if you'd like a more in-depth summary of a section that you are avoiding so you can understand what happened going forward. I ~~will probably~~ have put this in the endnotes and in the beginning notes of the next chapter.
> 
>  

The Doctor was in his office. Which sounded normal enough in theory, but he should be working. And he wasn't. He couldn't focus on work, he had tried. There was a stack of midterms to mark, another test to finalize in WordPerfect and print out on the dot matrix printer. Nardole was intermittently hovering unless he gave him something practical to do so he would stay out of his hair for a while, was still complaining about how much he let Missy get away with. And all he wanted to do was read. Read on a very specific subject that he had refused to let himself read about in a very, very long time.

He had gotten one of the texts off the top shelf while Missy had been napping and snuck it into his office. Missy was stubbornly acting as if everything was okay without medical care. He was wishing that he would have done some research while she had put the baby on hold so he could have been better prepared for what came next. Programmed some medical diagnostics into the sonic. Familiarized himself with each sexamester so he knew exactly what to expect. This pregnancy had come farther than any of her others, save one, and he was finally allowing himself to hope...that this time baby was going to make it through for the long haul.

Which was why he was reading a Gallifreyan medical text in his office rather than marking or editing. He had already read the pages on Gallifreyan reproductive anatomy and functions three times through and...it wasn't a lot to go on. After all, most Gallifreyan pregnancies went off without a hitch from a medical standpoint. That wasn't why natural reproduction was rare. Reproduction was rare because most women didn't want to go into heat. They didn't want to spend two years of their life incubating, their flawless control of bodily functions and emotions compromised, only to land them with a small being that needed more feeding and care for a further ten years. And most of all, it was unseemly to be telepathically bonded with a partner, intimately intertwined, at the whims of the mother's hormones and bodily functions, rather than appropriately aloof and independent. The hormone-rooted impetus to reproduce was so strong because otherwise no one would bother procreating at all.

Which was why this text discussed ways to avoid reproduction, not encourage it or help it along. Which was why it outlined mental exercises for reducing the need for physical intimacy during a heat. Which was why there was absolutely nothing at all about interspecies reproduction. Gallifreyan bodies were presumed to be perfect and infallible, interspecies procreation was unthinkable, let alone to allow a _halfbreed_ to reproduce with a perfect specimen such as Missy. If one did inadvertently have a crossbreed child they were nearly always disowned, sent away to grow up off-world, or at the very least relegated to Gallifrey's lower castes. The fact that he had become a Time Lord as a half-human was miraculous.

Nardole came into his office again, shopping in hand, and he tried to hide the book under another book but...too late.

“What's that?” Nardole asked, dropping the market bag onto the desk heavily.

“Research,” he shot back irritably. “You were fast.”

“Research on Gallifreyan anatomy?” Nardole asked next. He didn't have the good sense to leave well enough alone per usual.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well there was a diagram of lady bits, and may I just say...ew...and it seems to be written in a complicated language that I've only seen in Missy's private correspondence with you and can make neither heads nor tails of.”

The Doctor glared at Nardole, refusing to hide his face in shame. The cyborg also stared back uncharacteristically unabashedly. “You notice things if you're quiet and pay attention,” he surmised.

“When are you ever quiet?” the Doctor griped.

“May I just ask...”

“No!” Absolutely not. Nardole made his usual whinging noise and clasped his hands, twisting his fingers nervously. He plowed on ahead anyway a moment later:

“I can't believe I'm asking this..."

"Then don't!"

"...but you aren't seriously trying to become...intimate with the Mistress, are you?”

The Doctor's mouth opened and shut several times before he could formulate a response.

“Trying?” he clarified. “Oh no. No no, no no no. Not trying, no.”

“Well good,” Nardole returned, looking quite relieved. “Not that I think you'd get far there...”

“Thank you, Nardole, for your vote of confidence,” he retorted dryly.

“She just seems very difficult to please...” The Doctor couldn't help but laugh in response. “What???”

“It's just that you don't seem very interested in pleasing anyone,” he noted, clasping his hands together, leaning back. “When's the last time you tried to become intimate with someone?”

“Living inside a giant robot with multiple other severed heads was quite enough for me.” The Doctor's mind temporarily went off on a tangent involving River and a Teselecta and a tiny swarm of support staff but within moments his thoughts were back on Missy. He tended to have a one-track mind these days.

“I'm not sure you fully grasp how much more complicated a Time Lady is to deal with.”

“That's my line,” Nardole retorted. “I couldn't get away from those heads any more than you can get away from her, so when mistakes are made...and they will be...things can get mighty uncomfortable. I never knew having multiple partners would be so much work! And the lack of privacy...”

“Yes, thank you Nardole,” the Doctor interrupted. “I'll take that under advisement, though I think that one partner at a time is quite enough for me.” Nardole's mouth dropped open: 

“You _are_ trying to...”

“...keep her as healthy as possible?” the Doctor finished for him. “She's my friend, after all, and she's under my care.”

“Funny friends you keep...and just so long as you don't keep her under your...I don't even want to think about it.”

“Then don't,” he repeated, sliding the unmarked papers into his briefcase and shutting it firmly. 

“Just remember that when things go sideways that I'm still not letting you escape in the Tardis.” The Doctor chose to ignore Nardole's last, wondering how the poor bloke had the slightest chance of ever stopping him, and slipped the “anatomy” book into the market bag before picking it up, noticing that it needed a tune up as it felt slightly heavier on one side than the other. He grabbed his briefcase almost as an afterthought.

“Good night, Nardole.”

“It's not even evening,” came a snarky reply.

“Yes, but I'm not planning to see you any time this evening onward, so goodnight just the same.” He slipped out of his office into the corridor, shutting the door firmly behind himself. Office hours were over in ten minutes, there was nothing stopping him from going downstairs was there?

“He's definitely up to something,” Nardole noted on the other side of the door. The Doctor sighed and decided that was another battle that he wasn't willing to pick. In fact, he didn't want to pick any battles any time soon. He started strolling down the hall, starting to plan out the rest of his day. Surely he could focus on get some work done if he knew that Missy was fine with his own two eyes. Now that he knew Missy could sense him aboveground he rather wished that he could sense her through the field. He would settle for non-intrusive telepathic confirmation over silence. He hated worrying like this, stupid hormones...

“Doctor, so glad I caught you!” came the voice of Oglesby from out of nowhere. The elderly gentleman shuffled up from a cross-corridor, cane in hand (ridiculous, he didn't need it, it was all to lend gravitas), and clapped him on the back. “Only I've had a sudden emergency and was meant to proctor an exam in fifteen minutes. I don't suppose you could...” the Doctor sighed. He honestly couldn't think of a decent excuse.

“Consider it one last favor,” the Doctor agreed against his better judgment. Missy would have to wait.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Missy's head was still pounding away dully. Along with her lower back. The former had been hanging about since first sensing her predecessor, the latter on and off over the course of the day. The two concurrent sensations were making her feel a little green around the gulls. Or was the expression about Gauls? Who could understand Earth slang.

She covered her eyes with the back of her forearm, chin tilted upwards, wondering if she should just let herself sleep. But she hadn't eaten in so long that her nausea was bound to get worse. It certainly wouldn't be a repeat of the sleepsickness, but if she waited too long her body would let her know that fasting was unacceptable in other ways. Dizziness. Cold sweats. Mood swings.

She decided to try to focus on baby instead. All of this was worth being able to meet baby certainly. What was a little pain in the long run? If only her back would stop twinging, she hmphed. Focus on baby. Relax for baby. Focus. Listen to the steady rhythm of its tiny little heartbeat...

 

 

She jerked awake, hissing in pain. She'd fallen asleep. Her back was worse. Nausea too, still not at cookie-tossing levels yet. A somewhat unexpected feeling of slickness between her legs, her labia feeling swollen with arousal.

She felt her face break into her secret smile, the one she allowed herself when no one was watching, when it was only her and baby together. She had thought her mad need to be the Doctor the night before had just been in response to the worry and fear she had felt during the Master's visit, but if her first mini-heat was upon her, finally, then the danger of miscarriage was almost certainly over. It was truly safe for them to make love again, nothing too vigorous when the hormones left her feeling vulnerable and over-stimulated, but a sweet, tender experience such as the one they shared the evening before served to strengthen the bond between expecting parents. And she was all for that.

She brushed her fingertips over her lower abdomen gently, reveling in the sensation of firm but still flat flesh, and wondered if she could feel baby moving if she tried. She closed her eyes to focus again and waited, her breathing even and perfectly relaxed only to feel...

 ...nothing. Silence. No heartbeat. No bubble flutters. Nothing. She should be able to sense the heartbeat at least, that had been a steady constant for years now, freakishly slow while in stasis, awe-inspiringly fast while growing and...nothing. She pressed her hand more firmly to the spot below her waist where baby should be laying only to feel a sharp cramp.

One cramp. Only it hadn't been her only symptom. Her day had seemed uneventful. Breakfast. Cleaning. Tea. Reading. A nap. Simple things. But her backache had hung around intermittently throughout all of her chores and well into her self-appointed time dedicated to self-amusement. A backache could have meant nothing. It could have just meant that her body was resisting making more space for baby. If it weren't for this new sensation that someone had stabbed a dagger into her womb. She gasped, squirming in agony, drowning under a wave of terror that she hasn't felt in a millennium.

 _Blood_ , her nose told her as the blinding pain released just as suddenly as it had begun. She threw back the afghan on her lap, only to find her blood spreading across her thighs.

“No,” she heard as if from far away. She panted in shock, wondering what she should do next, inexplicably bursting out into raucous laughter. Her body clenched again, causing her to sag in the chair and curl into a ball from the pain of it. “No, no, no,” she chanted, trying not to writhe with the intensity of the wave, bracing herself against the arms of the chair. The pain radiated downwards, bone-deep, through her hips and then down her thighs. She was reduced to raw keening now, the sound of her own grief was surreal.

The pain stopped as quickly as it had started. Fresh slick ran down her thighs, more blood. Against her better judgment, she slid tentative fingertips downward, probing gingerly between her legs only to emerge tinged bright red flecked with small, darker clots. Her entire body had started to vibrate, shuddering. How long had it been since the last pain? How long would it be until the next? She became overwhelmingly certain that this room is too bright and too big and too dangerous.

Time, she discovers, has lost all meaning. She somehow managed to force herself out of her chair and onto her feet. She continues walking as another pain begins, this time in her back, hand pressing against the sharp pain that doesn't want to let go. She's dimly aware that she's leaving blood everywhere as she staggers across the room...a tiny trail of drops across her living space towards the en suite. It's reached her knees now, is starting to drip down her calves. A different sort of trail of carnage for the Doctor to follow her by. It cannot be helped.

By the time she reaches the ensuite, the pain has shifted from demanding and intermittent to demanding and going on forever without end. She shivers violently, her entire frame shuddering with the intensity of the cramps both concurrent and alternating between womb, pelvis, and back. Cold, so cold. It's spring again, why is she cold? But everything is wet. Everything is pain. She howls in rage.

She has stumbled to her knees in front of the bath and started the water running as hot as she can bear. She hasn't had a bath since the morning she found out, since she realized there was a baby. She already knows that there isn't a baby anymore.

Fingers tear at the button at her nape, discarding dress and undergarments, not wanting to see the physical evidence. There's so much red, warm and wet. Too much. She lets fabric slip through her fingers to the floor.

Somehow she manages to heave herself into the bath. The pain is instantaneously dulled minutely yet is still ever-present. She doesn't recognize the sounds that are coming out of her, the moans and whines, cannot control them, cannot stop them. She didn't turn on the lights and is glad for the darkness, does not want to look at her humiliation. She knows that the bathwater, already tinged pink, is slowly turning redder.

Something inside her shifted and everything lets up for a moment. She clutches the sides of the tub, gasping for breath, and reaches to turn off the water, agitated by the noise. She waits, panting for breath, dreading. And then everything shifts within anew. Her entire body contracts hard, focused on one purpose, muscles clenching downwards, and she groans with it, gripping the rim of the tub for dear life. The pains are no longer constant, they let up with more frequency, and yet somehow they are even stronger than before. Not as sharp, but more intense, more focused, no longer a cacophony of confusion but set to a focused purpose. Expel. Eliminate. Birth.

She will try to fight it. She tries to keep her thighs clenched together, her labia closed. The lips between her thighs can't even shut properly, are too swollen to fit together, rebel against this simplest of instructions, so she cups her hands around them, forcing them closed, pressing her knees together stubbornly. The overlapping petals flutter beneath her palms, writhing, straining, insistent. Pressure. Her body demands relief.

The pain comes again, and her hips feel as if they are being torn apart. Her legs fall apart against her will, hands scrabbling for purchase against the smooth porcelain. She tries to keep her body from pushing but has no control over any of it. She grunts, then roars with the pain as it overwhelms her, each cry dragged from her throat the same way her child is being forced from her body. Against her will. Against her heart. Her traitorous body.

She can feel baby pressing against her labellum, the pain receding an iota, and suddenly she is desperate to see. She bears down, intentionally causing her sex to flare open, and a tiny body slides into her palm, fully formed. She pants as she brings it up out of the water, tearing its tiny sack open with her nails and teeth, and holds the tiny body to her heaving chest.

He's perfect. Ten fingers, ten toes, thin limbs folded in a fetal position. Semi-transparent skin that reveals a heart that is absolutely still, lungs that will never fill with air. He fits easily into her palm, not even as tall as her open hand when she stretches him out, wondering if she could somehow perform CPR or give him some of her regenerative energy or _something_.

But she already knows it's too late. There is no movement, no hope, his life has been snuffed out before it even began. She sobs silently, cradling him to her breast, then heaving a battle cry at the ceiling. She ignores the way her body still contracts insistently, gradually expelling the placenta that is no longer needed, her baby the only thing in the universe that matters. Her against the universe. And yet she is for once completely ignorant of what is happening in the world outside this room, outside the safe space she creates for herself, wrapping love and regret around her baby like a blanket. Time has no meaning and spins in the eternity of a handful of frozen seconds.

The Doctor throws the door open fully as he arrives, her name dying on his lips with a shout as he takes in the scene before him. She has curled her body into a protective ball around her failure, wishing she could still hide in the dark, wishing he would have been here, relieved that he didn't have to see her betrayal firsthand. He falls to his knees beside the tub, tears already glistening on his cheeks.

“I should have been here,” he panted. He must have run faster than humanly possible to be so winded. He looked disheveled, his hair and clothes askew, as if he had run a marathon. The Earth turns at its usual speed, faster than Gallifrey, slower than Skaro. She tries not to grunt as her body continues to contract, it comes out sounding like a growl as he reaches for their baby. He holds his hands up and out, as if to show that he isn't armed. As if he'd come to her wielding weapons. As if they need weapons to hurt each other.

“I'm sorry,” she confessed, the shame drowning her. She'd let him down _again_.

“Missy, don't be,” he implored her. “This isn't your fault, we can try again.” Her heart hardens at his words: not her fault. How _dare_ he.

“Don't lie to me,” she hissed. It is her fault, it's always been her fault, it will always be her fault.

“You forget that I'm half human,” he reminded her. She hadn't forgotten. There's precious little literature on the subject, and they've got both known tomes tucked away on the top shelf of the bookcase, still out of her reach. There's just not enough research, no call for knowledge about why Time Lords and Humans are sometimes compatible, sometimes not. Because it's shameful to want to mate with a lesser species after all.

“I should do better,” she insisted, her voice barely above a whimper. She can't see him properly for the tears. He shushes her, moving as if to hug her, but she stops him. She kisses their baby on the forehead, and presses the precious failure into one of his palms. “A boy,” she said needlessly.

“He's beautiful,” the Doctor breathed, eyes captivated. “Thank you.” Missy writhes in pain again as fresh blood blooms in the water, the last pieces of the afterbirth finally expelled. A kind of relief washes over her. She'll bleed for days, but the work is done. Her heart will bleed for decades yet.

She sags in the water, tilting her chin up, her entire world suddenly focused on the mere act of breathing. She feels nauseous but knows she doesn't have the energy to be sick. Is the room getting darker? It's definitely spinning. And the Doctor suddenly isn't here. He's scarpered with the baby. Typical. Ridiculous. She's laughing again. The world is warping around her.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The Doctor stood in the Tardis medbay, watching her sleep, standing vigil over the tiny corpse tucked inside a stasis bassinet, waiting until it was safe to start breathing again. She was very still, looked small and frail beneath the room's harsh lights, but the color had come back in her cheeks. Her usual level of paleness, not death warmed over. He allowed himself to feel slightly relieved.

The computer beeped, finished with its scans of the tiny expired lifeform. He crossed the room quickly, eyes scanning as he scrolled through the report lightning fast. The Tardis hummed around them, comforting, consoling. He stepped back, hands in his pockets, turning the information over in his mind. Couldn't be helped.

He sighed, reaching across the desk to dim the lights to sleep mode, a warm, gentle glow filling the room instead of the harsh surgery level of moments before. He pushed the bassinet away from the scanner, next to the bed where she will be able to see very nearly as soon as she opens her eyes. Her breathing had picked up a notch, chest rising ever so slightly higher, as if she has sensed that her mate is near. She gasped, blue ice flashing up to meet his own tender gaze, instantly aware. He smiled down at her sadly.

“Hey,” he greeted her. “Welcome back.” She doesn't answer. Her eyes slid to the baby. She sat up abruptly, hands reaching towards the physical evidence of her failure. His own hands are instantly on her upper arms, steadying her as she sways, face terrifyingly pale again. “Whoa there, take it easy, you've lost a lot of blood.”

She tried to shake his hands off, failed, then let him ease her back into the bed. She wasn't fully reclined, but perhaps she could sit up a bit more now that she was conscious. He used one hand to adjust the bed up a bit more, leaving her legs elevated. Her neck turned as she strained to see...

“Baby,” she murmured, as if he couldn't feel the desire tearing at his mind insistently. He shushed her:

“I'll get him for you,” he assured her, “I need you to relax.” She's lifted a hand towards the bassinet cart, he took it and pressed it back to her chest, grip firm but not enough to bruise or injure. “I need you to relax,” he repeated firmly. “You've been through the wringer.” They stare at one another for long moments. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “Okay?” he asked.

“Okay,” she allowed, frame relaxing in gradual increments.

“How do you feel?” he asked. Her eyes flashed with hurt and he rushed to clarify: “physically.”

“Cold,” she shot back. He reached for another blanket, shaking it out, spreading it across her legs, pulling it up to her chest, where she grabbed at his wrist to stop him, hands steady but cold as ice. She's still resisting his assistance, he's noted. “Sore,” she offered. “Not as dizzy as I was.”

“Good,” he returned patiently. “Nausea?”

“No,” she shook her head. “Headache's finally gone.”

“You had a headache?”

“Since _he_ came and started attacking my shields,” she confessed.

“It probably wasn't that,” he informed her apathetically. She studied him for a long moment:

“You're blaming me, good,” she struggled to control her breathing, was trying very hard not to cry.

“Not exactly.” He studied her as she continued to wrestle with her emotions, hands twisting together over her diaphragm. "No, not at all."

“Baby,” she petitioned.

“All right,” he allowed. He deactivated the stasis field, his hands sliding beneath the motionless fetus wrapped in a soft flannel. Baby was so tiny that he might as well float away as he was lifted up onto his mother's chest. She was crying now. She pressed the fabric aside so she could see all of him, her face screwed up with despair.

The Doctor pulled up a stool, easing it as close to the bed and bassinet as he could manage and still expect to fold his long legs into. “He's too human,” the Doctor informed her gently.

“My body rejected the foreign DNA?” she asked.

“I think so,” he confirmed. “But he's psychic null. Old enough that you should have been able to sense his mind, only...”

“Only I couldn't,” Missy confirmed for him. “There was something wrong with his mind?”

“Too much human, he couldn't sustain having gallifreyan mental processes,” he informed. “His brain burnt out, cascade failure.” She sniffled, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand, eyes flitting up to meet his.

“So you were right about it being your fault,” she allowed, failing in her attempt at humor. “I still don't blame you.”

“And I still don't blame you,” he returned gently, still not allowing himself to feel anything other than analytical and serious. He had to be practical for a while longer yet.

“I need you,” she confessed. “Please can't you just hold me?” Her far hand, with the IV still attached, grasped at the bed railing. But she hadn't the strength to move herself to make room for him. “Hold us?” she asked even more tentatively.

He sighed, standing, his stool rolling away behind him. He slipped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and shifted her enough to give himself enough space to sit on the bed beside her without toppling out. He eased himself in beside her, draped her knees over his own, curling around her, sliding his top arm farther around her back, careful of the line in her hand.

Missy clutched baby to her chest, folding herself around him, tucking herself into his arms, against his chest. Her hair tickled, but he ignored it, ignored how the playful style was a terrible juxtaposition to the horror she had been through that day. He should have turned Oglesby down.

“You don't have to be strong for me, I won't break,” she breathed. He would. He knew he was going to break and there was nothing either of them could do to stop it. “Don't shut me out,” she pressed, “we can face this together.” The pain roared in his chest, threatening to take him under.

“I can't,” he gasped out. He allowed himself to look at the baby for but a moment. “I just can't.”

“Okay,” she murmured, her IVed hand lifting to cup his cheek, to rub against his fresh whiskers, thumb rubbing against his lower lip. He shut his eyes, unable to bring himself to hold her tender gaze, overwhelmed by the love and acceptance she was sending him, the forgiveness.

He began to feel that he understood how the Master had felt on the Valiant when he had refused to listen to his own overtures of forgiveness. He had almost lost Missy again tonight, holding her like this was terrifying, was too similar to the last time. He pressed his lips to her forehead. “Whatever you need,” she quietly assured him. “Take all the time you need.”

What time could be enough?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The afore mentioned chapter summary for those who cannot find it in themselves to read this:
> 
> Part 1: Nardole whinges about what it's like to have a relationship with multiple partners and no privacy. He warns the Doctor off of pursuing a relationship with Missy because he thinks the Doctor is up to something. The Doctor is talked into covering another professor's class.
> 
> Part 2: Missy is just starting to allow herself to believe that this baby is going to make it when she starts to miscarry. The Doctor arrives on the scene just in time to prevent her from bleeding to death.
> 
> Part 3: The Doctor explains to Missy that it is his human heritage that caused the baby to die. Missy forgives him unconditionally. The Doctor is cold to her and blames himself, feels unworthy of her forgiveness.


	11. Spring 1982

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grief takes many forms. The Doctor and Missy are far from out of the woods yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> The promised chapter ten summary for those who cannot find it in themselves to read it:
> 
> Part 1: Nardole whinges about what it's like to have a relationship with multiple partners and no privacy. He warns the Doctor off of pursuing a relationship with Missy because he thinks the Doctor is up to something. The Doctor is talked into covering another professor's class.
> 
> Part 2: Missy is just starting to allow herself to believe that this baby is going to make it when she starts to miscarry. The Doctor arrives on the scene just in time to prevent her from bleeding to death.
> 
> Part 3: The Doctor explains to Missy that it is his human heritage that caused the baby to die. Missy forgives him unconditionally. The Doctor is cold to her and blames himself, feels unworthy of her forgiveness.

Missy dealt with the loss of baby far better than she had expected. It hurt, of course, and she mourned the boy that she would never get to see grow up, but she had weathered this storm before. Painful as it was, it was nothing compared to the loss of their daughter. She had never really allowed herself to believe that she would be able to carry baby to term. And she had more to worry about than herself.

The Doctor had nightmares every night, worse than she'd ever known him to have. He wouldn't tell her what they were about, but she had a fair idea. While they were touching as they slept sometimes his nightmares were so loud that she couldn't help but see them play out behind her own eyes, would bleed into her own mind with surprising ferocity. Perhaps a dim tableau with her dead body floating in a bathtub full of blood. A surreal walk through their home in which blood lay splattered about on every surface of the Vault, not just the floor, from which she was completely absent. A trail of blood spanning an eternal maze of corridors in the Tardis with no way out. Her pale eyes staring at nothing under the harsh lights in the med lab, blood everywhere, like a Kahlo painting in vivid technicolor.

Time and again she saw herself as he did: bleeding to death in a myriad of poses, each more fantastical than the last. Sometimes he would try and fail to save her. Too late. Other times he would run away only to find her in a new locale, her eyes glistening as they stared off into the distance, life egregiously absent. Her skin pale, body broken. The least graphic times her eyes were closed and she could almost merely be sleeping. 

His mind screamed for hers during the night. During the day he had trouble looking at her, especially directly after waking up (ridiculous, shouldn't seeing her safe and sound in his arms silence his demons far better than avoidance?). As the days wore on his fatigue grew. He found no rest even as he slept. He rebuffed her attempts to console with touch. He refused to talk about what had happened when she fell unconscious directly after the miscarriage. All she knew for sure was that he had given her a blood transfusion.

As the weeks wore on her body recovered and their connection gradually faded. This was the Reprieve, the chance to abandon one mate in favor of a preferable one, devotion relaxing to allow reason to reassert itself. As such it was perfectly within his right when he shut her out of his mind entirely a month later, his thoughts and feelings suddenly locked behind a blank wall. She had preferred sharing his nightmares.

Losing him this way was actually more painful than letting go of the potential bond that had never reached fruition, the mind she had never touched, the cry she had never heard. Her own nightmares were of being unable to find her child, of endlessly searching to no avail. An empty cot in the Vault. Across a myriad of alien vistas. Even in the Tardis, not entirely unlike in the Doctor's own dreams. Though sometimes she would find him and just hold his tiny body close, she usually spent her entire night wandering fruitlessly. She remembered one dream where he had appeared to her at the age when it would be time for him to stare into the Untempered Schism, where he had assured her that he was safe and happy and not to worry. That was the worst of it, somehow knowing his features and voice were right even though it was all a lie.

Over time, she stopped searching for their son in her dreams and started searching for the Doctor instead. The same exact dreams, a different objective. He lay next to her in bed, but he refused to let her touch him anymore. He sat next to her at the table but said next to nothing, would only respond with grunts and shrugs. He got up every day, got ready to face the world, and left her behind in seclusion. She went on acting as if things were normal, but day by day he was slipping away from her.

He had watched her like a hawk at first, perhaps afraid that she would suddenly go on a murderous rampage, perhaps terrified that she would suddenly vanish before his very eyes. But when she showed no such signs of insanity or fading out of existence she had lost his attention entirely. She had no idea what he was thinking other than some sort of confused guilt that had always been carefully shut away even when he had still shared his mind with her. Perhaps she should have raged just to get a reaction from him. That's what she would have done once. No, not this time; she was still trying to be good.

So as her telepathic range weakened to her usual gifted standard she purposefully shut away the world outside. She was determined to stay even if he eventually decided he wanted out. They had made a deal after all. She remained patient, on her best behavior, uncertain what else he wanted from her. She took comfort in the fact that he was still physically present even as she worried that things were only going to get worse before they got better. Because she was utterly mystified as to how to reach him. Her best effort could be the very thing to push him away forever. All of her attempts were resisted to the point where she felt that she could do nothing right and surely must be earning his loathing.

He didn't notice if she made breakfast or cleaned up after him (he'd become frightfully negligent; while he once had at least attempted to keep his clothing neat and put away, he now seemed to care not one whit where he left it). He shrugged her off is she touched him or stood too close. He slept as far away from her as possible without falling out of their bed, his back firmly aimed in her direction. His face was as blank to her as his mind, he didn't want her to know what he thought or felt, and so she didn't have the slightest hope of discerning his needs or desires. He was just as cold to her now as he had been when he showed up at her execution, distant and seemingly indifferent. Intractable and broken.

His afternoon checkups had of course been the first thing to go. She couldn't expect better, it was as she'd feared: he'd only been interested in checking up on baby after all. He next started staying in his office until late in the night, playing his guitar, marking papers, doing anything and everything to avoid her, to delay having to interact with her, to even spend time in her company.

And then one night he didn't show up at all.

She didn't know what to do as their supper grew cold. She had--rightly so--not even expected him for tea at a decent hour and instead provided a later meal. She didn't know what to do when it was well past bedtime and there was no sign of him. She didn't know how to respond as the remnants of artificial sunlight faded from the room and the artificial moonlight started to stream through the windows. She sat up all night waiting for him, unable to feel his mind, no idea where he was, if he was in trouble, if he was safe. In the end she cried herself to sleep as the first glimmers of dawn were just making their way through the windows.

She woke alone, in rumpled clothing, at midday. She got up, washed her hair, put on her purple skirt and brown blouse, ate bland leftovers. She sat staring at a book, not really reading. Her mind wandered back to their childhood, to their time at the Academy, to what they had been like when their daughter had been alive. She analyzed her actions after... when she had been wild and inconsolable. She tried to see herself through the Doctor's eyes. She abandoned her book as the shadows grew longer and made tea. She sat and waited some more. She spent another night alone, waiting in the dark without him. She didn't let herself cry again.

Days turned into a week.

What she felt like doing was trashing the room. Ripping pages out of her books indiscriminately and breaking their spines and dog-earing pages at random. She needed chaos, she needed escape from this perfectly ordered world, she craved violence. She felt like tearing the sun out of the sky. She felt like leaving the Vault to find him but she would have had no idea where to begin.

All she knew was solitude and emptiness and regret. He didn't want her. He had abandoned the obligation he had to her, perhaps even hated her for every promise they had made. Her status as a prisoner was finally complete, left in utter seclusion without the touch of another mind or the whisper of a single voice to distract her. She started seeing silent, judging figures from their past out of the corners of her eyes.

Weeks turned into a month.

Each day passed exactly as the last had done. She got up. She forced herself to try to eat. She sat alone. She meditated. She tried to sleep and very often failed. She tried to ignore the walls that held her in, the accusing faces and whispers of people she had killed eons long past, tried to hold on to what was real and what wasn't. She longed now for escape. The Vault door held back the world so it couldn't wander in and break her control but it couldn't hold out her demons. She knew that if anyone had come to see her, even Nardole, that she would not be able to resist playing, threatening, breaking her promises, reverting to form. So she didn't leave. She managed to restrain herself.

Weeks turned into months.

Why had he left? Was he safe? Only the truth seemed painfully obvious and she felt a fool for having ever hoped that he had changed. He was running again. He wasn't coming back. She had lost him. Lost the war. The only war that mattered. She had never had a chance to please him, it had all been a foolish endeavor. Company and conversation seemed like a vague memory, lies that couldn't be real. She was dangerous and undesirable. She was broken beyond being fixed. She deserved this confinement, this solitude. She deserved all of it. All of the accusing voices were perfectly right to hate her.

There was no world outside her own, these four walls and the room that was a living nightmare. There was no reason to keep eating, or wash her hair, or meditate. She did it merely out of habit, because it was what she had always done and was all that she knew how to do. Routine was the only control she had anymore. She was like a dead thing walking around, breathing, existing, but not living. Never living. She was the mother of death after all. Damaged. Hated. Feared. What was the point in trying to be more?

And yet she endured.

 

 

She wasn't sure what had woken her. The Vault seemed its usual monotonous self, perfectly quiet and hauntingly empty. She rolled over and fell back asleep. Or tried to. She was on edge suddenly, felt more alive than she had in longer than recollection, and she couldn't put her finger on why. Until a few minutes later when the room's only wooden door was eased open ever so quietly and someone padded across the darkness in socked feet. A foreign smell came with them, of humans, and library, and decay that was musty and moldy, an intrusion into her sanctum that was utterly wrong. Her entire body and soul was wide awake now, a live wire of nerves and anticipation. The soft footsteps came closer, accompanied by quiet breathing and creaking joints, a quiet sigh. Just a moment longer...

Missy lunged towards the figure, tackling it to the floor. Her fingers wrapped around a whiskered neck and she applied slow, steady pressure, cutting off a muffled shout and the airway of who the voice belonged to. It had all been instinctive, it wasn't until after the deed had been done that she remembered what it was to be dangerous. She was finally alive.

Only he wasn't fighting back, and that took all of the fun out of it, denying her the joy of all of her brash violence that promised to have a more poignant ending than this dull surrender. Her mind raced in confusion, struggled to grasp what was happening. She kept her full weight on his chest but relaxed her hands just enough to let him speak:

“Missy,” he wheezed out. It sounded like him but he smelled all wrong. She dipped her face down lower, sniffing, still suspicious, still not sure... Until he lifted his hand to cup her cheek gently, wrist pressed just beneath her nose, and she smelled the soap from the lavatory, their soap, and his smell just faintly there underneath the extraneous delusive smells. She let go of his throat only long enough to slap him across the face _hard_.

“You stink,” she hissed. “And just what sort of hour do you call this?”

“I'm sorry...”

“Do you think I care for your pathetic apologies?!?” she demanded, her righteous rage rearing its head for the first time in...she knew not how long. She didn't want to hear that he was sorry, didn't want to let him hurt her all over again, _wouldn't_ let herself cry. “Eighty-one days...” she accused, letting slip that she had kept count. Well what else had she had but time? Not that a day had any meaning anymore. What was a day to a month or a year or an eternity? “I begged you not to shut me out, but you pushed me away time and again, and then you _vanish_ without so much as a note or message from the fatty...” She didn't remember the fatty's name. She wasn't even sure of her own name anymore.

“Now that's unkind,” he objected. “Besides, Nardole knew where I was...”

“Well I didn't!” she exclaimed shrilly, squeezing his chest between her knees until she felt his ribs threatening to give. “I didn't know if you were dead in a field, or injured beyond regenerative ability, or had gone back to your wife, or found a new _friend_ and scarpered in the Tardis.” She didn't even know what all of these words meant, only that she had practiced them until they came to her easier than breathing or crying. This was the speech she had prepared for him an eternity ago finally given voice. “All I knew is that you were gone and I was alone...so alone.” Yes, alone she knew. Alone was safe. Safe for outside. Safe inside.

At least he couldn't see her cry. She had promised herself that she wouldn't cry. She stood abruptly. What was even the point? She knew of old that he never asked, never listened. Why had she memorized the words when she knew them to be futile??? Was he even real? She had never expected to see, hear, sense him again. Now that her speech had been delivered she knew not what came next, only that she no longer felt safe. She couldn't even trust her own mind, let alone that she wouldn't kill him.

More of the speech came to her: “Get out,” she ordered him quietly. He made a sound of objection... “You have the audacity to tell me that _I_ am unkind, you filthy hypocrite.” She didn't know what kindness was, she didn't even know what she was saying, some dead part of her had taken over momentarily.

She swayed on her feet, exhausted. When had she eaten last? It didn't matter, nothing mattered. He was back but he would leave her alone again. She would be safe again. She would go back to bed. She started to turn...

...only he was clutching at her ankle, palm pressing down on her instep. She tried to shake him off, but she had spent all her energy on choking and squeezing the rage out of herself. She felt dead on her feet. What had she been doing?

“Please, Missy,” he murmured. “Please forgive me, I was a fool, I thought Nardole would have told you, I didn't mean to hurt you but I...I couldn't think straight for the pain.” His voice shifted location in the dark as he begged...was the fool on his knees now? What was the point? It was too late. “All I knew was that I have to fix this and...I've missed you...” She made a non-verbal sound of scoffing derision. She would never believe that. “I _have_... there wasn't a day that went by that I wasn't thinking of you, you are the reason why I went...that sounded wrong, I'm sorry. Please won't you at least give me a chance to explain?”

She wiped her face with the back of her hand before turning on the lamp on the nightstand. They winced at the sudden light but he didn't hide his face. His face... was shockingly expressive. He stared up at her as if she were a goddess. Huge tears slid down his cheeks into a chin full of whiskers, a full beard that looked completely alien on him. She was confused about his face, if this were even the right one for him to be wearing. He had more hair on his face than bare skin. He had never worn whiskers, that had always been her, hadn't it?

But his grief was plain to see, easy to make out even intuitively. Despite her better instincts she wasn't unmoved, she was already reaching for his face, needing to know he was _real_ , wanting to soothe him by wiping away his tears. She cupped his jaw in her hands, thumbs wiping the wetness away, mind brushing against his own, whisper-soft, as natural as breathing.

Shame, hot and raw. Open _want_ , not exactly sexual, but for comfort and... more than that, approval. Her brows knit together in confusion. He thought she didn't respect him? No, that she _shouldn't_ respect him. Unworthy of love. Unworthy of forgiveness, to be bondmate. Idiot. He lifted both his hands to cup her own, pressing them even closer, holding them as he turned his face to kiss her palm: “I need you,” he petitioned, as one utterly bereft of any self-worth, any right to praise. Her former anger melted immediately, it was inconceivable to even consider...

She didn't even recognize herself. To even consider having compassion on this idiot after what he had put her through... and yet, it came to her as easy as breathing. Love was all that she was certain of in this moment, that she had loved him, yes. Love was...forgiveness. Love was together. Love was a promise. This was what she had been waiting for, had forgotten, why was she fighting it?

“Get off the floor,” she told him gently, taking his hands in her own, helping him up. “You're not getting into my bed until you wash that stink off you.” She wrinkled her nose. He kissed the backs of her hands repeatedly, stolen little pecks of... gratitude? Did not make any sort of sense.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he quietly intoned. She rolled her eyes, annoyed with him. She should feel pleased, he was never one to grovel but... she just wanted to sleep. She just wanted him to smell right.

“Shower... _now_.”

He smiled disarmingly before heading back to the room she avoided. She sighed, straightening the duvet, then folding it down, fluffing the pillows. His scent had faded from the bedding ages ago. She needed his scent more than oxygen. His right scent.

She left the light on but slid under the sheets, wide awake, heart pounding in anticipation. _He's back_. Whatever Goddess or God there may be that she had never prayed to be praised, he'd finally gotten himself together and come back for her. She was absolutely certain that she was too excited and emotional to sleep, but sleep took her just the same. She wasn't awake when he turned off the lamp. She wasn't awake when he slid his body into the bed behind her. She wasn't awake as he wove his fingertips into her hair and pressed his chest against her back. She wasn't awake because he was here, and that inexplicably meant _safe_ , and that meant her body could relax for the first time in before-remembrance and let herself truly rest.

 

 

She awoke to the scent and sound of food frying. It was such a foreign concept, to have someone else in her world, let alone taking care of her. She had taken care of herself always, it was all she knew. But even if this was new, it almost made up for how much it annoyed her to wake up alone in their nest. Almost, but not quite, because a part of her was still furious with him and furious with herself for letting him into said bed, for allowing herself to miss him and pine after him when she should be above such things. Had been above such things?

Some part of her recognized a conflict between her upbringing and biological imperatives which were still--apparently--running havoc, and should do for a couple of months yet. What imperatives? Why should she be trying to ignore hormones? What _were_ hormones? And why did she have them to begin with??? It was all jumbled up inside, confusing but insistent. They needed to renew their bond as soon as possible. She needed to make her mate happy. She wasn't entirely sure what a mate was, only that mate meant _him_. The one who was inexplicably taking care of her. Meanwhile her “higher functions” (which had served her _so well_ in the past) were screaming at her to come up with new and devious methods for torturing him, to teach him to regret ever having even _considered_ leaving her.

What was torture? Why did it make her feel alive and joyous yet frightened and wrong? Torture certainly wasn't safe, certainly was not the way to treat your mate, whatever torture was. She pulled the duvet over her head, trying to hide from her conflicting thoughts. _Be good_ , she reminded herself. Yes, mate wanted her to be good. This she remembered above all else. He with the scary face, with the nose that she loved, that stood so proud on his face.

“Missy,” his voice, coming nearer, rippled with amusement, “what are you doing?” She peeked out of her nest, considering. She wasn't used to anyone being with her, but she could smell that he was mate, which meant safety, which meant the nest was for him just as much as her. She wasn't sure what he wanted her to do, but oh no, his face was melting and she wasn't sure what it meant other than she had done something wrong.

He set food on the nightstand, held his hands up, open by his sides. She stared at him, then got up on her knees and copied the action, at a loss as to what else to do. What did it mean? Oh yes, hands up meant safe, meant no intent of danger. She was suddenly happy with herself for remembering this and bounced eagerly, throwing the duvet off entirely and feeling her face break into...smile, yes smile. She felt happy. Even if his face was still frozen with not-happy feelings.

He stared at her long moments more. What would make her mate happy? She reached for his hands, pulling him onto the nest, to herself, relearning the feeling of his fingers meshed with her own. His eyes were so blue, she hadn't remembered that. She had remembered his hair and his nose. She had remembered what his voice had been like as he had used to read to her forever ago. She smiled and kissed his nose, watching to see if it pleased him. He seemed frozen in indecision.

“I stayed here,” she assured him, suddenly desperate for him to know that she had behaved. “I didn't break the books, or the dishes, or the door.”

“Oh g-good,” he stuttered, “that's... good.”

“I wanted to find you but...” outside was danger or...no, she was dangerous to the outside? Her emotions and memories were all confused inside her.

“I'm glad that you stayed,” he assured her. “Can we sit down together for a moment?” he gestured towards the bars against the wall. Oh. She hurried to rearrange the pillows against the bars so they could sit up without too much discomfort. They sat side by side, but it felt wrong somehow. Backward. She was in mate's place, he was in hers.

He didn't seem bothered. He reached for the food and held it out to her. She crinkled her nose, not really wanting to eat. No point? But he was back, surely there was no reason not to, not if it made him happy. She took a piece of bread, golden and crispy, and nibbled off a corner. “Do you know who I am?” he asked as she worked her way around the edge of the bread, nibbling off the browner bits.

“Yes,” she assured him, tentatively taking a bite that included the orangey goo on top. The flavor exploded on her tongue, sweet and sour and bitter all at once. Yummy. She stuffed the rest in her mouth. He stared at her as if she were standing on her head.

“Who am I?” he asked.

“Yes, Who,” she nodded, chewing the food. That sounded right.

“Can you tell me my name?” he pressed again. He was starting to get ever so slightly frustrated. She wasn't sure why--since she was incandescently happy for the first time in ever--but maybe she should continue to be hesitant. She wanted to please him after all.

“Mate?” she tried. She reached for another piece of orangey bread.

“Well yes, yes I am your mate,” he encouraged, “but there's another name you usually call me.” She screwed her face, trying very hard to think. She stared into his very blue eyes, something about his eyes was important. She continued chewing on her food as she thought. She opened her mouth and sounds rolled off her tongue. She didn't know what she was saying, what it meant, only that it meant _him_. He seemed marginally satisfied and she smiled brightly at him again.

“Was I right?” she asked.

“You used to call me that a very long time ago,” he allowed. “Can you tell me your name?” She stared into his eyes some more and felt the space around them fill with his memory, red plains of grass flashing across her world, two children running hand in hand. Laughter stolen away by the wind. The smell of rain in the distance. Another word rolled off her tongue, foreign and yet familiar as breathing. He looked shocked.

“You haven't used that name since we were children,” he told her.

“I remember you calling to me in the grass,” she confessed. “But I was hiding in a tree.”

“Do you remember the first time you saw this face?” he asked her. “You were waiting for me in the darkness.” She put her bread back on the plate, half eaten. Her stomach was so full. “You kissed my nose,” he prompted.

“Mobile Intelligent Systems Interface,” she pronounced very slowly. Her memory was full of predatory anticipation, extremely chaotic and out of focus. “My heart is maintained by the Doctor...Doctor Who.”

“That's right, that's me,” he encouraged again, though his face was still very still and not-happy.

“Am I actually in charge?” she asked, her own voice continuing to echo around them. The way she had felt after they had kissed...

“Sometimes you are,” he allowed. “Sometimes I get a good word in edgewise.”

“I don't want to be Missy,” she decided. His face somehow got even more serious:

“And why is that?” he asked.

“Because you didn't like her,” she explained. New memories were flashing across the walls, of him running away, and her chasing, again and again and again. “I wanted to be your girlfriend and you...didn't.”

His eyebrows were extremely distracting. She wanted to touch them. So she did. They weren't as soft as she had imagined. Was his beard? His beard was surprisingly soft. Her own had felt far rougher as a rule, but his was a touch longer and curled ever so slightly, softening his harsh features. She wondered why she wasn't scared of him, he looked scary but...maybe he was scary for her. To protect her, yes. “Hey Missy you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Missy,” she sang. She had liked being Missy, she remembered, but he hadn't. So she needed to be someone else.

She gradually realized that he wasn't even breathing, just sitting very still, watching her. She stared into his eyes again unabashedly, trying to find the answer to the question that haunted her. “You're my mate,” she knew this better than she knew herself, but it was better to hear him say it.

“Yes,” he confirmed, setting the food aside again now that she had lost interest in it. “Yes, you could say that.”

“But you've had other women,” she continued warily, not wanting to sound ungrateful or demanding. She had once had Lucy after all. “Women that traveled with you.”

“They weren't my mate, they were my friends...”

 _Lies_ , her mind whispered at her. _River Song_.

“But _I'm_ supposed to be your friend,” she returned firmly, uncertain yet sure she was right. “I am,” her voice caught in her throat. Surely she was?

“You were my friend long before you were my wife,” he stated equally gently. “My first friend.”

“Why am I here, then, instead of in the Tardis?” she asked. “Why did you leave me _here_?” She wasn't entirely certain what a Tardis was but she knew it was alive and safe. At least in the Tardis would have sung to her mind. Here all she had was silence and the awareness that she wasn't good enough to travel with him, she didn't deserve the Tardis. Doctor Who only stared at her with thinly veiled horror marring his face:

“Missy, that was the deal we made...”

“No, I mean, what did I do to make you go away?” she pressed on. “Tell me what I should do, how to make you happy...” she continued stroking his beard, entranced with how thick it was, how well it covered his face. Novel. Baffling. Why didn't she grow hair on her face anymore? “I want to make you happy,” she confessed.

He moved so fast then that before she could even react she was caught up to his chest, holding her ever so tightly to himself. Hugging. Hiding his face. He didn't like hugs, hugs were against the rules.

“You do make me happy,” he choked out.

“No, I don't,” she denied gently yet emphatically, pushing him away. Eyes couldn't lie, hugs could. “Stop lying to me,” she begged. “I don't understand, why did you leave? What did I do wrong?” He took both of her hands in his own, staring into her eyes with new fervor, as if begging her to understand she knew not what:

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he repeated. She shook her head. It was the truth but it made no sense. None whatsoever.

“But I must have.” She blinked, surprised to find hot tears on her cheeks. “It's all I remember for certain, that you left me because I messed up, I failed. Did you go back to River? You smelled like a library last night.” River meant library, though why she could make neither heads nor tails of.

“No no, not to River, it was a different kind of library,” he clarified. “Missy what do you remember? About before I left?” He was so earnest. She shook her head, puzzling it out.

“I don't remember anything from before,” she told him. Why should she? “I don't know why you left, only that it was my fault. I failed, so you were free to choose another mate. I didn't _expect_ you to come back, but I am ever so glad that you did... so please, Doctor, tell me. What did I do wrong?” He didn't answer for a very long time, but she could tell that he was struggling to find words, so she was patient.

“I'm an idiot,” he confessed. “Missy, try to believe me, but it's my fault, not yours. I know you don't understand right now.” He sighed, dropping his face into his hands in frustration. “You're right, the bond lets me out if I want it to, but I didn't leave to find another mate. I left to try to figure out a way to fix our problem. And I was so hellbent on fixing things as soon as possible that I've gone and made them worse.”

Worse how? She still didn't understand. She tentatively reached out to touch his face again. She wasn't sure why but touch seemed important, perhaps comforting. Necessary. She could feel his frustration buzzing across her fingertips. “I should never have left you during the Reprieve, and certainly not without explaining to you properly. I was just so wrapped up in my own pain... and you deserve to know the truth.”

He took a deep breath before launching into his confession at full speed: “I can't lose you Missy, I can't. I see now what this looks like, that I wanted out, that I was rejecting you. Nothing could be further from the truth. I blamed myself. I know you don't understand, you don't remember do you? But you forgave me, you didn't blame me at all, and that was worst of all.”

A tiny piece of her world was unraveling. Some part of herself that she had hidden away was exposed by his confession. She pulled at the thread, afraid but needing to see, tugged it free from his mind rather than her own.

“I lost a baby,” she realized, seeing the truth as if it was something that had happened to someone else a very long time ago. That was what the Reprieve meant, the loss of a child, a decision. Should they try again or go their separate ways? How could she have forgotten that, how could she forget a baby?

“My fault,” he insisted. “You almost died because of me, something completely outside of my control, yes, but my fault just the same. I wasn't here when I should have been. I should have been here to take care of you, to help you through it. I should have been taking better care of you to begin with. I should have thought things through before we had even gotten that far...”

“It wouldn't have changed anything,” she interrupted. She wasn't sure how she knew that, but she did.

“I know,” he agreed. “But I didn't know how to go on like that, with you looking at me as if I had hung the moon, as if I am the only thing you could ever want, when it was _my fault_. You should have blamed me, I blamed me, and I was so scared of losing you. I needed to prove myself to you, to earn your forgiveness, and all I could think to do was fix the problem, find a solution. But I forgot what leaving you would look like to you. You're usually so independent, but now you're here, fully dependent on me, and it's been so long since we went through a Reprieve, and I wasn't thinking straight. You asked me not to shut you out and I didn't listen, didn't think. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn't want to let you in anymore and yes, I shut you out.”

She didn't understand all that he had said. She understood that it was his version of the truth. The world was more complicated than she had remembered. She did know she didn't blame him. She needed him to know that. So she climbed into his lap and kissed him, lips barely brushing against lips at first, then the tip of her nose sliding back and forth against the tip of his nose. She loved his nose and this felt right. She pressed their foreheads together, eyes drifting closed.

“It's okay,” she murmured. “It's going to be okay as long as we're together.” And then his hands were on her face, holding her steady as he desperately pressed his mouth to hers, as if he were drowning and she could save him. He wanted to believe her, needed her words to be true. She melted against him, her fingertips tangling in his majestic curls as she poured all of her love into him...and he poured back. His mind was sliding against hers, water against water, simultaneously one and independent. He was as much a part of her as the two hearts beating in her chest. The bond flared back to life as if someone had splashed accelerant on a flame.

Oh yes, this felt familiar and ancient. They had always burned this way, brilliantly and quickly and painfully. She felt his pain and regret as her own. His heart ached with the pain of it still, even more at the forgiveness and acceptance she was pouring back into him. He drank her in as if she were the oxygen he needed to survive. _More._

She wanted to believe that he was telling the truth, that he hadn't actually rejected her... A part of her was furious, was still screaming at her to hurt him. He had hurt her after all. Someone had said that time heals all wounds but she wasn't so sure. Mating healed all wounds, yes mating was good. Kissing like this was dreadfully nice, feeling his mind moving against her own even better.

She undulated in her mate's lap, pleased to feel their bodies responding to their minds' dance. And suddenly she needed his skin against her own. She needed to feel his hearts beating beneath her hands, to know that this was real, not just one of the voices or memories that refused to leave her alone sometimes. Her fingertips found the buttons at his throat, plucking them open, working her way downwards. His hands closed around hers before she could reach his waist, stopping her frenzied movements. They stared into each other's eyes.

“I don't deserve this,” he confessed. She eased away from him ever so slightly, all of her joy sinking into dread.

“Is it something I did?” she asked.

“No, no, Missy,” he assured her. “I'm just not sure if this is something that's appropriate given your current mental state. And given the fact that I have clearly lost some of your trust...” his breath hitched as she pressed her hands underneath his vest, against his chest. Soft flesh and hard bones over two very real hearts. Yes, vibrantly real and alive and ever so slightly furred. Not a dream.

“You think too much,” she decided as she rubbed his nipples. Why should he have nipples? Ridiculous. But she loved them just the same. She leaned down to kiss them, open-mouthed and wet, watched as his eyes dilated, his breathing grew erratic and ever so slightly desperate. She nipped at swollen pink flesh and he hissed, jerking beneath her mouth and teeth.

For the first time in longer than she could remember her mind felt clear, her mind felt _right_. She sat up to her full height, enjoying the little sound of distress he made as she abandoned her attentions. She pressed her palms to his chest, one hand over each heart. “I made my decision a long time ago,” she assured him as his eyes searched her own. “I don't remember much, I don't always know what's real, but I know that I am yours if you still want me.”

“Missy, _of course_ I still want you...”

“Then I need you to show me that you are mine,” she told him firmly, no more patience for empty words. “It isn't easy for me to forgive you. A part of me is still very, very angry. There's no more time for games, the Reprieve is over, it's time for you to decide. Do you intend to break this off for good or renew our bond? I need to _know_ that you aren't going to leave me like this again _. No more shutting me out_. You're entitled to privacy and autonomy, I will respect that, but I can't live like this, with you denying me your heart and mind. I cannae stand feeling that I'm a burden and unwanted, inferior to your students or friends or any children we _might_ have...”

“Missy, no,” he breathed, his voice full of compassion and shock. “You've taken such good care of me, I know I don't tell you often enough you how much you mean to me...” She set a single fingertip on his lips, halting his stumbling apologies.

“Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it,” she murmured. “I don't need more promises, I need action. I need your body against mine while we sleep. I need your mind against mine as we live side by side. I need you to commit to this and be more mindful of your choices and how they affect me. No more shutting me out. No more treating me like a burden. No more games...”

“Enough, I am engaged,” he returned, his mouth dipping to claim hers once more. He had recognized her reference then. He pulled his vest out of his waistband, undoing the last of the buttons, and she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, rubbing them to feel their wiry strength as his mouth found hers and their breath and minds commingled anew. This, yes this. This could not be a lie. He used his body to prove his love, to take her mind and soul apart and put her back together again. This was heaven on earth. Perhaps this was a dream after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7k words of insanity. Can anyone tell me which work of Shakespeare they quoted today?


	12. The Research Project

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor comes up with a plan. It isn't necessarily a bad plan, but it has repercussions just the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of this chapter and the very beginning of the next are going to be chapter 11 from the Doctor's POV. So there will be a little repetition and clarification. Sorry if that annoys you. But the beginning of this chapter...i was laughing my head off writing it. I hope you enjoy it half as much as i did.
> 
>  

It was as if his body had been hijacked. The end of term was fast approaching and he found it impossible to focus. He walked around campus in a haze, would wake up to find himself in completely random places. The cafeteria. The clock tower. The pub tucked behind the Humanities building, just off the edge of campus, where professors from the Philosophy department regularly got into friendly debates. Just outside the doors that would lead down to the Vault.

Once he realized that Missy wasn't planning any imminent world domination he had thrown himself into his work. He'd been neglecting it far too much of late, which had been only natural given the circumstances, but now he needed to buckle down. Which was going terribly. He kept forgetting things. The quizzes that he had intended to give one day. The handouts about the final another. What his lecture had been meant to be on. The grading he needed to hand back. What time his office hours were. All of it seemed pointless.

It didn't help that he couldn't sleep. If he slept he dreamed and if he dreamed it was about Missy dying. Which he tried to force himself to think about as little as possible but to be honest he was failing at that, too. It wasn't that he wasn't upset about the baby's death, he was. Honestly, he was. He had tried and failed multiple times to write a song about him and couldn't manage it. No music could accurately express the depth of his grief at the loss. Everything he wrote was just an empty gesture. 

But the thought of losing Missy was even worse. Gallifreyans didn't die in childbirth, it was unheard of. There were so many redundant systems in their bodies that it should be impossible. And Missy, never one to be outdone, had bucked those odds spectacularly. Were it not for the fact that he had a time machine that was inclined to bend the rules a bit when needed then Missy would have been dead as surely as the sun rises in the east...on Earth at least.

He had never even considered that there could be a time where Missy was gone forever. The Master had been a persistent thorn in his side for the majority of his lives, had had more lives than a clowder of cats and was just as slick at escaping consequences. Always landed on her feet, Missy did. That was one of the things he loved her for, no matter how slim a chance she always found a way through. It was a universal constant, like the Daleks finding a way to survive and rebuild or stepping in shit when you're wearing your best pair of shoes and not properly paying attention to where you were going.

But he was now forced to admit to himself that Missy was going to kill herself trying to have a baby and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Her body wasn't going to simply give up on this, especially not while he was cohabiting with her. In fact, the longer their relationship went on the more difficult it would get, the stronger the impetus would be. His perpetual presence signaled Missy's body that the procreation potential was even more favorable than in the case of a passing dalliance. Their bodies were going to become more interdependent on one another, more efficient at successful procreation, at least theoretically. Which was something he hadn't exactly thought through when he had decided to spare Missy's life and keep her locked in a box for a millennium. He tended to try to think about babies as little as possible after all. They were too distracting.

Which was why he was seriously behind on work and getting further and further behind on sleep. He'd had a case of babybrain and now he had a case of depression. The more he let himself sleep, the more distracted he got. The less he let himself sleep, the less energy and focus he had. It was a vicious cycle. As the weeks wore on it wasn't only when he slept either. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her body broken beyond repair. Too late. His fault. He couldn't cope. Sleep was not an option.

And if that wasn't bad enough, looking at Missy every day made it a million times worse. He had let her down so much that he had no idea how to make amends. She was trying so hard and it only made him feel guilty all the more. He hadn't a leg to stand on, this was his fault, why did she keep trying to reach him? Why was she so keen on making sure he knew that she loved him and didn't blame him? He _wanted_ her to blame him. He wanted her to hate him as much as he hated himself. He wanted her to mock his failures with that shrewd tongue of hers, take him down more than a few pegs. Because that was what he deserved. He didn't deserve her love and compassion. He deserved her scorn and disappointment.

He carried the shame with him every day. He wanted to cling to her but didn't deserve her touch. He wanted to apologize but what words could be enough? He wanted to sleep but sleep was somehow even worse than reality. So he kept putting one foot in front of the other. He threw himself into his work in a mad attempt to try to keep up with his responsibilities and distract himself from the pain and was failing terribly. He had let his students down. He was letting Missy down. It was a bad job all around.

 

It was the second to last day in the term when he found a book shoved into the back of a drawer in his desk. Not any book. The book Nardole had caught him reading on Gallifreyan anatomy. He'd finished all his work and, desperate to distract himself, had actually resorted to _cleaning_. Which was how he realized that he'd been going about all of this the wrong way.

Humans were far more hesitant about procreation than they needed to be. They worried about anything and everything (what else was there to do when they couldn't use their brains and _think_ to make sure the baby's heartbeat was keeping its proper pace or if mum's liver and kidneys were keeping up with the increased workload). They ran tests and diagnostics and peed into cups. They used medication to stop themselves from having babies, to have more babies, to keep themselves from losing a baby, etc. What Missy needed was a doctor. And he just so happened to be one.

Not that he was a proper medical doctor of course. But he was a scientist. He could read substantially faster than the average human. He could become an expert in any subject in a matter of days or weeks. He could learn what he needed to learn to become an expert in obstetrics and gynecology. And not in the Time Lord way...but the Human way. Because Missy's body wasn't only dealing with the issues of a Gallifreyan pregnancy but a Human pregnancy as well. And it may be unheard of for a Time Lord to need intensive medical care throughout a pregnancy but it wasn't unheard of for Humans. Missy needed care suited to her unique needs. She needed an expert to get her through for the long haul. And that someone was him.

An updated medical database wouldn't be untoward either. Which was how Nardole found him in the Tardis an hour later, doing a quick tune-up and diagnostic pre-flight checks. Sexy hadn't been out of the office in over thirty years.

“NO,” Nardole pronounced firmly. “Absolutely not. You are not allowed to leave her unguarded.”

“Nardole...relax.”

“Relax?!? You don't even punish her for poisoning you and now you're going to just leave the Vault unprotected!?!”

“I'm not leaving it unprotected, I'm leaving my best man on the job,” he objected. “Surely you can handle her for the summer.”

“Nope,” Nardole repeated. “Nopity nope nope no way man.”

“Don't call me man,” the Doctor griped.

“You haven't been yourself in months and now you want to swan off...”

“Nardole, Nardole, Nardole...there's a very good explanation for that. Of which I am fully entitled to deny you nary a hint therof. Suffice to say that it's private.”

“Private?!?”

“Yes: personal, a secret, above your paygrade.”

“You just don't want to admit that you've majorly mucked things up with Missy...exactly what I warned you _not_ to do!” He blinked, not sure how to deny when Nardole was so on the money, but plowed on.

“Are you going to keep complaining or are you going to listen to my plan?”

“Complain,” Nardole shot back.

“Oh but I thought I could rely on you of all people to help me out in a tight spot. I mean, I'm doing this on a whim, but that doesn't make it any less important.”

“Important?”

“All very hush hush, can only trust the very best...”

“Well you can always trust me...to make sure you're not letting her get the jump on you! You can't just leave...” Nardole finished with a whine.

“I'm not leaving. Not Earth, at least. You are.”

“Say what?”

“I want you to visit the coordinates I programmed into the Tardis navigational control and do your very best tech support. Tardis needs its medical database upgraded.”

“But why?”

“Because I have a duty of care and Missy has been very sick. That's why I've been acting so strange. Which you would know if you ever took the time to visit our patient.”

“It's not catching, is it?” Nardole asked worriedly. The Doctor snorted:

“You're entirely the wrong species,” he assured the shorter man. “Now Missy's set up with food for about two months, so after you finish your mission I want you to come back straightaway and watch the Vault while I spend the summer working on my very important very secret research.”

“Most of these coordinates are on Earth,” Nardole noted, squinting at the navigation panel.

“So they are.”

“Missy isn't human.”

“No, but my companions often are, and I want to be prepared,” he lied.

“So your very secret research isn't about Missy being sick, it's about making sure your human friends don't get sick?”

“Sure,” the Doctor agreed. Nardole could go on thinking that if it made him feel better.

“All right,” Nardole agreed, still not sounding convinced. “But I'm still against you making any new friends. You are still grounded mister...” Nardole noticed the Doctor's glare, “er, Doctor.”

“I'm not leaving the planet with Missy in her current state. But I need you to check on her for me at least a couple of times while I'm gone so you can let me know if she gets worse.” He patted down his pockets, pulling a sealed envelope out: “Oh, and deliver this to her for me, will you?”

“Right-o,” Nardole intoned, flipping switches. The Doctor flipped them back.

“Don't mess with anything,” he hissed. “The entire trip is programmed.” He used eyebrows. Nardole wilted and backed away from the console.

“Anything else?” Nardole prompted.

“Yes... thank you,” the Doctor threw out over his shoulder as he practically floated out of the Tardis, slinging a knapsack over his shoulder. It felt so good to have an achievable objective again. Plus he wanted to keep Nardole guessing. It never hurt to keep him guessing.

 

 

The Doctor was still running on adrenaline as he descended upon the Cambridge Medical Library several hours later. He ran through the shelves until he found the section on pregnancy and reproduction. Not his usual haunt. The library was mostly empty at this point, but what people were around stared as he grabbed a nearby cart marked 'Please Return Books Here' and loaded up all of the books from the first shelf in the section. Even older editions. A librarian stopped him halfway to the lift, hands on her hips.

“A word, sir?”

“Well hello,” he greeted. “My name is Doctor Smith.”

“Doctor, running is not allowed in the library, and patrons are only allowed to check out ten books at a time not...” she scanned the cart “fifty.”

“It's forty-seven,” he corrected. “Look...”

“Doctor...”

“...it's the end of term and this is _really_ important.”

“...Smith.”

“Can't you just make an exception this one time?”

“No,” she stated firmly.

“Oh no, is that a student chewing gum and talking at the same time?” he pointed.

“What? Where?” With the librarian's back turned, he hightailed it for the lift, the doors barely closing in time to avoid being caught. He sonicked the controls to let him out in the basement where it was cool and dark and he really wouldn't be bothering anyone at all. There were several empty desks for librarians to work at in the archives. He chose one and sat down, notepad and pen pulled out, before he started to flip through the first book and jot down notes.

 

 

If he hadn't been taking notes, it would have only taken him a couple of evenings to finish with the books. As it was, it took him over a week. By which time campus was closed for the summer hols, the librarians had long since given up on shifting him, and he had read a further five shelves of material. His mind was swimming with facts and diagnoses. He had already slept twice in that time and was feeling much refreshed. He'd blissfully only had one nightmare, and there hadn't even been any blood.

Next on his To-Do List were the medical journals, filled with all the cutting-edge peer-reviewed science of the day. They were practically obsolete but as good a place to start as any when one wanted to stay on world and in time zone. He wasn't just making himself an expert on the science but on the history of the science. He wanted to understand it for himself from start to finish. He couldn't go back in time and visit the greats who had started the research, he couldn't go to the future and see where it had been perfected (if research ever could be perfected, there was always more to learn). If he left Earth right now, even to return in the next instant, Missy would never forgive him. Their timelines were synced for the time being and he owed it to her to keep them that way. Hopping a Tardis alone directly after a miscarriage or birth was unthinkable.

So the Doctor flipped through this period's medical journals highlighting the latest and greatest research of the day. In Vitro Fertilization. Louise Joy Brown, Earth's first IVF baby, was just turning four this summer. America's first IVF clinic was already a success. Egg donorship and frozen eggs were right on the cusp of being developed. Current projections were that fertilized eggs would be cultured in a lab for three days before multiple embryos were implanted in a mother with no way to predict which embryo(s) would take.

This procedure, if the Doctor could get it to work, could surely not take as long as that. Human women had six days of fertility per cycle. Missy only had two, maybe three. As such, Missy's ovum (singular) would be released the day before she actually went into her next heat but after three days it would already be too late to implant it. That is, unless they froze the embryo and waited until her next cycle.

The question really was if he could convince her body to release more eggs per cycle in order to give him a greater chance of fertilizing a viable embryo. One that actually had a chance of surviving to birth. He'd need to wait until Nardole got back to see what medical developments had taken place in the following decades and centuries so he could nail all of this down with more accuracy and figure out if he could replicate the procedure in the Tardis med lab. But the theory was clear in his mind. Now he just needed to get some hands-on experience.

He let himself out of the library a couple of days later. Two weeks, and the majority of his theoretical research was complete. He briefly considered visiting Missy... but Nardole should have already been back from his extended mission and delivered the letter he had written her. He had made progress, he had, but the work wasn't done. He still couldn't face her, not like this. So he hopped a plane to Baltimore to visit the new IVF clinic and see what they were up to there.

 

The Joneses were a power couple, friendly and eager to talk about their work. They were making advances in reproductive health _right now_ , and it was exactly the kind of research he enjoyed taking part in. Watching it unfold in real time. Spitballing ideas in the lab. Observing at appointments and births. Scrubbing in on a c-section. Rescuing the interns who had been hypnotized by Sontarans and were impregnating mothers off hours with Human-Sontaran hybrids so the Sontarans could eventually take over the western hemisphere and the world.

What he hadn't expected was to find was that he enjoyed getting to know the mothers and sharing in their joys and fears. These women had all refused to give up on becoming mothers, had fought to get here. Their determination was impressive and he recognized that it was part of what had always attracted him to Missy. She knew what she wanted and fought for it.

But at the same time, these births were high-intervention and often highly stressful. It was a stark contrast to the way birth was treated on Gallifrey, as a nuisance but necessary, nothing to get excited about really. He was highly unusual for a Time Lord in that he loved babies and children, he enjoyed being around them. Here at the clinic and hospital each birth was highly longed for and seen as miraculous with a lot of help getting along. So much help.

After Johns Hopkins, he wanted to see what progress Humans were making towards so-called natural childbirth, so he decided to study under some midwives on a farm in Tennessee. A male midwife was not entirely unheard of, of course, but it was highly unusual. But Mrs. Gaskin took a liking to him and put him to work nearly immediately. She had him catch the next baby to be born on the Farm and from there he hit the ground running.

These women treated birth as a right of passage rather than a procedure to medicate and be frightened of. Nudity was normal, movement throughout the birth, even sex and self-pleasuring were highly encouraged between the expectant parents and/or willing partners. The Joneses had never asked for permission before touching their patients' bodies, before prodding with fingertips or inserting tools. They had warned but not requested. Things were different on the Farm. If a mother didn't want to be touched, she wasn't touched. If she wanted her husband involved he was allowed to stay in the room and participate, nay supported and encouraged to do so. Examinations were performed with warm, friendly hands and laughter, not clinical analysis, top of the line machinery, and detached professionalism. The midwives were educated in another way, told him stories of how things used to be before birth had been modernized. LIfe moved at its own pace on the Farm.

He regretted his own detachment directly after Missy's miscarriage in hindsight, with a ferocity that surprised him. He wanted to be better, do better. He had only intended to stay for a week. Gaskin had insisted he stay at least six months (it was impossible to even imagine staying away from Missy for so long). They compromised with six weeks in the end. Which wasn't so long in the grand scheme of things, but...he missed Missy. He had wanted to really give Missy her space so she could think clearly about whether she still wanted this relationship to go forward. He certainly did. But it had been over two months away from her now, was already coming up on three. Despite enjoying his stay on the Farm, he was desperate to leave after six weeks.

He knew everything there was to know about human reproduction in this era. He'd received hands-on training in IVF. He'd observed sperm freezing. He'd delivered over a dozen human babies and sat in on countless appointments observing pregnant mothers. He was educated enough to form a plan now, to come up with coherent research and models of how Missy's body would react to similar treatments. With Nardole's part of the job, the research and medical practices of the future, he could jump right in on once he got back to Bristol. They had ten years before Missy's body would have a jumpstarted heat to try to make up for the pregnancy she had lost. If Missy gave the go-ahead. If she hadn't decided that she was through with his sorry excuse for genetic diversity.

His own head was on straight again. Maybe that was more because he was finally free from the pull of the chemicals and hormones running riot in Missy's body. Maybe it was because he had found a goal and poured himself into achieving it. Maybe the pain had just faded with time. He didn't have nightmares anymore. He was more likely to dream that Missy was one of the women he was learning how to care for. There was one very vivid dream where he had watched a baby crowning, the mother stubbornly bringing him into the world without much noise of any kind, where he had looked up to realize that it was Missy whose lips were spreading beneath his supportive fingers. He had woken up from the intensity of the orgasm that dream had provoked.

If he were perfectly honest, he still thought about Missy all the time. He thought about how to apply these theories to her treatment. He thought about what it would be like to experience a pregnancy with her again, what he'd like to do differently. He thought about how he just wanted to be with her again, just live side by side. He missed her a lot. She had effortlessly worked her way back into his life decades ago now and now he felt like he was missing a part of himself without her.

 

It was an exhausted but renewed Doctor that walked up to the Vault, his education mostly complete. He was full of excited anticipation as he unlocked the door and stepped back to wait for admittance. It was late, and he was desperate to see her, but he also didn't want to wake her needlessly, so he hadn't warned her that he was coming in. He didn't call out a greeting as he tiptoed through the dark to take off the suit he'd been wearing for months. He really hoped that Missy wouldn't resent a good cuddle and was eager for bed. His body was tense and sore after the long flight on which he had been too excited to sleep. He had read for most of the flight, reviewing his notes from Cambridge Medical Library, reading some books that the Joneses had gifted him from their own library. He was excited to see where the research would take him going forward.

He hadn't been expecting for Missy to pounce on him all sharp nails, a grip of iron, and full of spitfire. For a full fifteen seconds he had been absolutely certain that this was it. This was the day on which she was going to make good on her centuries' worth of threats and fulfill her long-declared wish to kill him. Not just a trap to catch him in, for him to perhaps die in the process of putting to rights and escaping. No, deliberately and slowly. She was going to murder him with her cold, bare hands.

And then her fingers relaxed minutely, allowing him to breathe, to gasp out her name. Her entire body was quivering as she bent over him, taking in his scent. She hadn't recognized him in the dark. He didn't blame her, after months out and about rather than on campus and in Vault, who knows what smells he had grown accustomed to that would be foreign to her. He blindly lifted a hand, gentle as he found her face in the dark, proffered the pulse point at his wrist. Her mouth dipped in acceptance, he could almost believe it was a kiss...

He was blindsided with an open-handed blow to the face. He hadn't been able to see, hear, or sense it coming. His mind was still shielded against her after all. He would have liked to writhe in pain but she still had him pinned and he had enough self-preservation to remain relaxed and pliant.

“You stink,” she accused him, her voice low and still dangerous, “and just what sort of hour do you call this?” He was still seeing stars behind his eyelids. She had surely put all of her strength behind the blow. His face was on fire, throbbed where her hand had touched, as if she were still inflicting her wrath upon his face.

All he could think to do was apologize. Not that it was forced. He had apparently fucked up somehow. If he could only figure out how, maybe he could fix it. Gentle words of supplication seemed like a good start. Wrong again. “Do you think I care for your pathetic apologies?!?” Okay, no apologizing, apologizing made her even madder, she was ranting now. “Eighty-one days. I begged you not to shut me out, but you pushed me away time and again, and then you _vanish_ without so much as a note or message from the fatty...”

“Now that's unkind,” he objected automatically, still reeling. The world felt slightly surreal at the moment. But she was still meant to be practicing being kind, and Nardole had his uses. “Nardole knew where I was...”

“Well I didn't!” she interrupted him. Her voice was the opposite of low now, was glaring. And now she was compressing his chest between her thighs, his ribs protesting. He struggled to retain his mental processes while his body was screaming at him to run, to fight back, to escape. “I didn't know if you were dead in a field, or injured beyond regenerative ability, or had gone back to your wife, or found a new ' _friend'_ and scarpered in the Tardis. All I knew is that you were gone and I was alone...so alone.”

No. No no no no no. Nardole hadn't conveyed his message. The idiot. No, _he_ was the idiot. The Doctor realized with delayed clarity that he should never have left without forcing himself to talk to Missy about why he was going. She was right, this was unforgivable. He deserved whatever she dished out, he almost wished that she would abuse him more, but no, her knees were relaxing, hands letting go. She was removing herself from him, was giving him an out, nay commanding him--“Get out.”--her voice thunderously quiet and absolutely calm. This was the worst blow of all. “You have the audacity to tell me that _I_ am unkind, you filthy hypocrite.”

He scrambled into action, no more thought of escape, and prostrated himself before her, reaching out in the dark to grasp at her feet. He found the one closest to himself, held onto it like a lifeline, applying gentle force. She could still escape him easily, he wasn't about to use enough force to hurt her, but this was enough to get her attention, to provide him the precious moments he needed to properly apologize, to perhaps explain enough before she lost interest, to make a difference. It was time for him to be open and honest.

“Please, Missy, please forgive me,” he petitioned. “I was a fool. I thought Nardole would have told you, I didn't mean to hurt you but I...I couldn't think straight for the pain.” He crept closer as he felt the weight of that loss even now: “All I knew was that... I have to fix this and...I've missed you...” She scoffed in the adorably casual way of hers. But she was still listening, and he pressed on: “I _have_ ,” he assured her, “there wasn't a day that went by that I wasn't thinking of you, you are the reason _why_ I went...” no no no... “that sounded wrong, I'm sorry. Please, won't you at least give me a chance to _explain_?”

He was too desperate to think straight, to be articulate. Her silence was absolutely terrifying. She held all the power in this moment. If she rejected him, what would he do?

The air around them was suddenly flooded with light. He flinched but lifted his face towards her. Perhaps he should have bowed his head, pressed his face to her feet in adoration, but all he knew was that it had been such a long time--too long--since he had been strong enough to look at her. And she was beautiful, her eyes burning with a cold ice, her hair a wild mane of effervescent fury, a majestic crown to frame her chiseled alabaster features. He didn't deserve her, couldn't possibly, and yet the very thought of losing her, of being denied the right of her mere presence, was still shockingly powerful. He needed her more than air, than water, than sunlight. He was lost, she surely would not take pity, she was too strong for him...

And then she was reaching for him, the rage on her features melting away to confusion. Her hands found his jawline, and he threw his shields open, wanting her to take it all. His regret. His pain. His earnest devotion. Her thumbs brushed against his cheeks, wiping wetness away, her mind brushing against his own in an echo, whisper-soft, as natural as breathing. He didn't deserve this kindness, this comfort, but he longed for it just the same.

He was weak, surely she would despise him for it, she who was always poise and strength and playful spite. He knew he had lost her respect, that was what he had wanted after all, until he didn't and his determination had transmuted into fear. He was certain that he was damned. She would turn him away, would choose another potential father for her children surely. His chest convulsed, body wracked by a sob, painful after how she had treated him, but he deserved it. He deserved all her hatred and more. He was drowning in the pain now, couldn't help the petition that dropped from his lips like a prayer.

“I need you,” he shamefully begged, wanting to die. He was an idiot, worthless, despicable. He had never done anything worth her good favor, was a hypocrite who was prone to violence, anger, all of the things he accused her of delighting in. At least she was honest about who she was, she owned it. He was a pathetic liar, trying to hide his true nature from the universe. She took the miasma that was pouring out of him without flinching. He wanted to hide from her now, it was too much, but he was too weak to remove himself from her tender hold. Light poured into him to meet his darkness. Love. Acceptance. Compassion. Forgiveness. It took his breath away, the strength of her determination. She loved him. She chose him. He had been false but she would remain true.

“Get off the floor,” she told him gently, her hands dropping from his face only to take up his hand from where it clutched compulsively at her hip. She helped him up, a measure of cold steel still imbued in her gaze. “You're not getting into my bed until you wash that stink off you,” she informed him matter of factly. Her nose crinkled adorably. He dipped his face to kiss the backs of her hands repeatedly, desperate tokens of appreciation. He did not deserve even this much affection of her.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he refrained from chanting it like a hymn. She rolled her eyes, still bored with his attempts at reparation.

“Shower... _now,_ ” she insisted. He smiled, delighted by even irritation from her. He knew that it was his queue to leave, but to a place nowhere near as far away as he rightly deserved. He was delighted with his unearned reprieve. He had missed her so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of filler? But it's still over 5.5k words.


	13. Of Bondmates and Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first morning back together from the Doctor's POV with so so much exposition. And makeup sex (yay).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to post this a couple of days ago but it just kept growing. It's almost 8k words but i didn't know how to cut any more of it. Also, this brings the entire posted story thus far to over 200 pages.

It was with a surreal sort of awe that the Doctor felt when he woke up the next morning in the place he had come to associate with nightmares and failure to...bliss. His Missy in his arms. His wife. Hope.

He had fallen asleep spooned behind Missy. Sometime during the night she had turned to embrace him in her sleep and she was now clinging to him with an uncharacteristic ferocity. Her dreams skittered across his awareness, she was searching, frantic to find him. She was still locked in the nightmare. He cupped her face in his hand, pressing his mind against hers ever so gently. Her unconscious mind pressed back in recognition and flowed into happier dreams, her body incrementally relaxing in his embrace as her dream Doctor was returned to her safe and sound.

He watched her sleep for a while, still feeling wholly unworthy, stealing gentle touches and kisses, stroking her hair, rubbing her back soothingly. She pressed her face more firmly against his chest, nuzzling at his throat. Their scents intertwined, the smell of home and safety and completion. Her mind was purring in contentment now, reveling in the contract. She burrowed into him, hip nudging against his semi-interested cock, causing pleasant stimulation.

He forced his hands to still. He wouldn't presume to have the right to allow this to escalate further, not without her express (conscious) verbal permission. He still didn't deserve her, explanations were still to be made. He started working his way towards extricating his frame from her clutching limbs, sending safety and love to her even as he tried to escape. Once freed he could not help but gaze at her appreciatively a while longer, his mind gradually turning from adoration to designs on how to earn her forgiveness. His work had only just begun.

Her body had been cool against his and was now shivering without his warmth. She whimpered, clutching at the duvet, and he spread it across her frame to warm her back up, rubbed her arms through the thick blanket, almost afraid to let himself touch her directly. It was hard to judge while she was fully covered by a voluminous nightgown with long sleeves, but she was all skin and bones again unless he was very much mistaken. The fact that she was wearing a warm nightgown and using the duvet in the full heat of summer bore witness to his hypothesis. The Vault tended to be cooler since it was underground but he could still feel that today would be a warm day. 

Missy hadn't been taking proper care of herself. Her hair was nowhere near its usual semi-subdued state. She looked pale and wild beneath the simulated sunlight. She looked small and alone and he longed to climb back into the bed with her and just hold her. He still didn't feel he had the right, all of his earlier caresses had been stolen. He pulled himself away to get dressed.

Food then. What food was left? He set to doing an inventory in the pantry, the freezer, the cupboards. Everything seemed bare compared to usual but he knew there was far more food left than there should have been.  _ Any _ stored food was too much after the amount of time he'd spent away, should be depleted. The shelves should be empty. He wondered if she had been rationing it or if she simply didn't think of eating without him to care for.

She had prepared all of their meals for so long now. It was a job that she seemed to enjoy, especially baking. She had sometimes sent biscuits or other treats for the students with him even, perhaps on a holiday or just to set out on his desk during his office hours. Tiny unspoken ways to stake a claim over him. Baking would mean a wife to his students and peers, or at least a very attentive housekeeper. He imagined it was an ongoing source of campus gossip:

> Student 1: There's no way he baked this, mate. 
> 
> Student 2: Not this again. 
> 
> Student 1: Look, he wears a ring on his left hand!
> 
> Student 2: That's not a wedding ring.
> 
> Student 1: But it's on his ring finger! 
> 
> Student 2: It looks more like an engagement ring. 
> 
> Student 1: Innit though? 
> 
> Student 2: Men don't wear engagement rings. 

Only they did on Gallifrey. Rather, they wore bondmate and wedding rings as they applied, which was nearly the same thing. Always while bondmates. Usually when married. And if anyone had ever noticed that he wore two rings on his left ring finger they had never even mentioned it.  Not even Nardole. 

He had worn the bond ring even before stumbling upon Missy in the crypt folded into St. Paul's. He still wore the wedding ring for River even though they'd never had a ceremony with rings, only the handfasting in the aborted bubble universe where time had stood still. It felt wrong to take them off. He kept them for remembrance just as much as to warn others off. Not available. Taken. River had made sure he wouldn't be alone. She had wanted him to give Missy another chance. In a way, it was River's will that held him to Missy just as much as his own. So his new wedding ring held his bond ring in place. 

The bond ring… He had taken it with him into exile, though he had hidden it away at the time. There was no mating bond left once she had regenerated into the Master. It had been her right to choose. But he'd continued wearing his wedding ring on the middle finger of his left hand as was traditional on Gallifrey during his initial adventures. The ring had telepathic properties that had supported his mind-bond to then-Missy no matter where he was in time and space. It was huge compared to his bond ring, which was still large enough to denote his wife’s status and rank. This sort of mental connection, the awareness, transcended time and space in all its dimensions. 

Both rings had been gifted by her and had different meanings. The bond ring was her intention and promise to bear life, his promise to protect and support her during that endeavor. Again, taken. Chosen. Time Ladies were rarer than Time Lords and usually the dominant partner.   Her body's needs were an imperative out of necessity. 

Gallifreyan marriage had nothing to do with procreation. It was permanent comingling of compatible minds on a deeper level, a declaration of trust, was devoid of gender roles and outlived regeneration. A friendship that transcended time and space. His marriage ring had been abandoned when he regenerated for the first time. His second self had pretended he had no attachments. No wife. No daughter. No granddaughter. 

Bonds could be arranged between houses for a time but a marriage couldn't be forced or annulled. Missy was allowed to choose to regenerate, to not bear, to break the bond. Marriage was forever, was never this flighty thing humans had. Time Lords didn't have divorce. Even if a relationship failed and there was a separation, you would always carry a piece of your other half with you. You would always find each other eventually, attracted like magnets. 

Marriage was rare and dangerous.  They had secretly been married while still at Academy, unable to fathom a universe where they weren't together. Bonds were necessary but an obligation of sorts. It was his duty to take care of her. A duty he wanted to have. A duty he had neglected for far too long. 

He pulled an apron on over his clean (if slightly musty) vest and trousers and started taking food out of the fridge for a full Scottish. Within a couple of minutes, the kitchen was singing with the sound of food frying, the toaster humming, the kettle purring. He was starving, hadn't eaten since the plane, had been too nervous to think of it on the train. He stole a piece of toast for himself, sipping tea as soon as it could be made, keeping half an eye on the bed. Sugar buzzed across his nerves pleasantly. 

He thought she was awake. She had pulled the duvet over her head, but maybe she was just hiding from the light and wanted a lie in. He was fine with breakfast in bed, it was just the sort of romantic gesture that women loved. Most women. Missy, when they were newlymates, would have complained about crumbs. He found the tea tray and arranged their plated breakfast and cups of tea. It was all very full. Perhaps he'd made too much.

He took off the apron before carrying the meal across the room towards the bed. Missy was still inexplicably huddling under the duvet but there was more movement now. Definitely awake.

“Missy,” he coaxed, unable to keep the amusement from his voice, “what are you doing?”

She peeked out of her nest shyly, seeming uncharacteristically hesitant and subdued. Something was wrong. She wasn't angry anymore. Was she frightened? He set the tray on the nightstand and stepped back to give her space, hands spread instinctively. She had gotten violent last night, he was hoping to avoid that this morning. His ribs were sore and his cheek still smarted.

She stared at him like a distrustful cat, then got up on her knees and copied him, looking utterly confused. They stood staring at one another for a long beat, and then she...bounced. Her face broke into a delighted smile as she threw aside the covers and playfully boinged on the bed not unlike Tigger. 

He felt his face melting. He stared at her long moments more, not comprehending. Violence he could understand, verbal reprimand endure, but a playful Missy was...well she was always like that to a point, but this seemed uncharacteristically childlike. Open and vulnerable and utterly without guile. Missy always had guile in spades. Something was dreadfully wrong. This was not the Missy he had left months ago, this was something new and...unexpected.

She reached out to him next and he obediently came along, kneeling with her on their bed. They stared at one another as she twined their fingers together, gazing up at him with a sort of wonder. As if she was relearning his features. Did she even know him? He was starting to get an inkling that some if not most of her memories were absent. Her eyes were curious and unguarded in a way that was breathtaking. She looked utterly vulnerable. 

This sort of open affection was unusual for her. Not the touching, she had always been physically demonstrative in all her forms (except while she was trying to establish control during her heats). It had driven the one with the scarf bonkers. Celery had been hopelessly lost, wasn’t wired for intimacy of that sort. He himself had always patiently endured rather than welcomed or encouraged her affections. But there was always a part of herself that was held back, guarded and protected. He was the same way with her. It was impossible for them not to be with their history. That part of her was currently wide open, beckoning.

“I stayed here,” she assured him in Gallifreyan, breaking their extended silence. “I didn't break the books, or the dishes, or the door.” She gazed up at him expectantly, clearly desperate for approval.

“Oh g-good,” he stuttered back in Gallifreyan, “that's... good.” She was so earnest and needy that he wasn't quite sure how to react. Last night he had suspected that she would need to earn her trust and forgiveness. Today her trust seemed implicit but she was so unlike herself that he was at a loss. These were uncharted waters. 

“I wanted to find you but...” she was still studying their hands, looking utterly confused, her mind working furiously but not quite latching on to what she wanted. Confused Missy was new. Confused Missy was completely incomprehensible, he had never seen a version of her who didn't understand whatever problem she was presented with instantaneously. Bored comprehension and dry wit was the epitome of who she was. Worse yet, she didn't even seem distressed by her inability to understand. Confusion had become commonplace to her, was now _normal_.

“I'm glad that you stayed,” he reassured her, forcing himself to remain calm. He needed to fix this as soon as possible. He needed to assess where she was at mentally, emotionally, physically. He couldn't even imagine leaving her to do the shopping that was needed while she was like this. That could be disastrous given her current state. “Can we sit down together for a moment?” he gestured towards the headboard. His knees weren't particularly happy with their current arrangement.

Missy leapt into motion, eager to please, humming as she arranged pillows and bounced aside to make room for him. He sat down in the space she had prepared, knees popping as he extended his legs towards the center of the bed. He felt naked as she studied him, her expression sliding back towards disconcerted. He reached for the food, desperate for a distraction more than anything else.

Missy seemed a bit overwhelmed by the array. Her hand hovered for a moment and she snatched a piece of toast. He had spread marmalade on top for a special treat. Extra calories. She liked sour things far more than he did, bitter things too. She certainly didn't take as much sugar with her tea as he did. She seemed hesitant at first, her first bites only nibbles. She ate in a way that was tentative and systematic. She made pleased noises as she continued eating. He cleared his throat: “Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” she agreed right before stuffing the entire piece of toast into her mouth. He needed to stop staring but couldn't bring himself to look away. Missy anything than perfectly put together and refined was an oddity. He wanted to catalogue it all. He had been deprived too long, he didn't want to miss anything, adored every part of her.

“Who am I?” he probed patiently, trying to keep his mind on track.

“Yes, Who,” she nodded, mouth full, still chewing, looking pleased with herself.

“Can you tell me my name?” he amended. He needed her to say it. Perhaps he needed to be more precise with his wording. Missy hesitated:

“Mate?” she tried, voice tinged with uncertainty. She reached for another piece of toast, fidgety under his intense gaze.

“Well yes, yes I am your mate,” he encouraged, suddenly mindful of the fact that this face was intimidating. He could try to be more friendly: “but there's another name you usually call me.”

She screwed up her face, looking extremely childlike. Her eyes grew bigger, and she turned her entire body to face him, her eyes locking with his. Her mind brushed against his own inquisitively. Telepathy had always been instinctive for her, she'd never had to work at it as he had. It still came to her like breathing.

She fairly sang his name. His given name. With all the Gallifreyan intonation and proper stress to emphasize its meaning. The name he had hated growing up, that the other students had made fun of mercilessly. It took his breath away to hear the way her mouth caressed it like poetry and promise and ever so right. She smiled again, her entire face alight with hope:

“Was I right?”

“You used to call me that a very long time ago,” he confirmed, a frog in his throat. He could barely breathe with the intensity of the emotion that word had invoked in him. Even though he was trying to test her memory, the fact that her telepathic abilities were intact flooded him with relief. “Can you tell me your name?”

She blinked, her eyes intent as her mind brushed against his own again, as effortlessly as breathing. He wasn't even trying to guide her perusal, she simply plucked what she needed out of his memories. Her eyes drifted shut with contentment as she professed her own given name. A name she hadn't used since before...before becoming a childless mother. 

“You haven't used that name since we were children,” he marveled. She understood his questions, she knew how to navigate his mind effortlessly, she just didn't seem to have access to the answers within her own mind. As if her past was locked away to herself.

“I remember you calling to me in the grass,” she confessed. “But I was hiding in a tree.” He didn't want to think about that tree, its memory was tainted now. His throat was tight with emotion. He closed all of the doors to her in his mind before asking his next question:

“Do  _ you _ remember the first time you saw  _ this _ face?” he prompted. “You were waiting for me in the darkness.” She was bored with the food now and put what was left of it back on the plate that still sat in his hands. She seemed a bit overwhelmed now, distracted. Another hint: “You kissed my nose.”

“Mobile Intelligent Systems Interface,” she pronounced very slowly, her eyes out of focus this time, staring off into the distant past. Her voice changed as she recited: “My heart is maintained by the Doctor...Doctor Who.”

“That's right, that's me,” he encouraged again, trying to smile for her. Her eyes found him again and she studied him for a moment, considering:

“Am I actually in charge?” she asked thoughtfully.

“Sometimes you are,” he agreed. “Sometimes I get a good word in edgewise,” he disagreed playfully. She seemed utterly unaffected by his humor. She ignored it entirely.

“I don't want to be Missy,” she announced. His heart fell but he kept his voice calm, inquisitive:

“And why is that?”

“Because you didn't like her,” she declared with a childlike bluntness. She stared at the wall behind him, her gaze intent as if she were watching a telly. He knew if he turned to look that all he would see would be blank wall, but Missy's attention was wading through her own muddled memories now. Memories that she was watching as if they had happened in a story. Was she hallucinating? How vivid were those memories to her? “I wanted to be your girlfriend,” she continued, “and you...didn't.”

He could feel his eyebrows twisting in reaction to her observation. He couldn't really remember the period of time she was referring to. He could have been still very much in love with River or...he sighed, even Clara he supposed. He had felt too much for Clara, he knew, and regretted the way he had treated River and even Missy as a result. He hadn't let himself be with River the way his previous self had, not until it was almost too late. Guilt came to him easily.

Missy's hands were suddenly on his face, her thumbtips brushing against his eyebrows. She hummed to herself, absorbed by the unfamiliar tactile sensations, and then her eyes dropped lower. She ran her fingers through his beard, stroking his face gently, now studying his face intently. “Hey Missy you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Missy,” she sang very quietly. He held his breath, watching her as she played with his whiskers, waiting for her to come back to him.

Her eyes found his, mind probing again but denied any answers, an unspoken question in her mind this time. “You're my mate,” she told him, using a very old form of the word for marriage-partner. Friend but more, kindred spirit, one loved more than self. 

“Yes,” he agreed. He set the food aside, too focused on her to eat at present. “Yes, you could say that.” It was a sruprising word to use for their relationship but certainly not wrong. 

“But you've had other women,” she continued tentatively. “Women that traveled with you.”

“They weren't my mate, they were my friends...” he corrected automatically, using a word for a far more casual sort of friend. Shared experiences, guarded affection, cooperation, no obligation implied. Temporary affiliation. External not internal. 

She seemed wholly unsatisfied with his answer, even annoyed by it, but it was true from his perspective. River was the only companion he'd had that came anywhere near the same level of intimacy as he had with Missy... and she had never been a reproductive partner. She had apparently been barren. That or never gone off birth control during their time together. He'd never asked her and she'd never offered. 

He'd been a coward. He knew she'd had a human cycle, not actually Gallifreyan despite her Time Lady status after all. And he had tried to form a marriage bond with River but her mind was too human for it. Yes, River had been his wife in the human sense, but she had  _ never _ been his bondmate and… Not quite a friend/mate as Missy was implying. Only Missy could ever hold that story of permanence. 

He  _ had _ informally courted Romana as a potential bondmate but never with the intention of marriage. They’d had an easy comfort that was completely devoid of passion. It had been a proper relationship, the way Time Lords were expected to behave. Romana had simply been too young and had yet to reach maturity when they'd parted. He sometimes wondered if she'd ever found anyone or if her frequent regenerations were a refusal to settle. 

Not even Clara, who knew more about him than anyone, had never been privy to any significant information about his wives, let alone a hint of his deeper, secret relationship with Missy that had once been. He kept everyone at arm's length. No one was allowed to be intimate with him, only Missy. Hands only. He had flirted with Clara time and again but never let himself go farther. Clara had deserved better of him but he had been weak. This form had needs that he had been able to ignore for such a long time.

“But  _ I'm  _ supposed to be your friend, I am,” she insisted, but she sounded lost. Uncertain again. She was close to tears this time. This is what mattered to her, their names were incidental.

“You were my friend long before you were my wife,” he explained gently, warmly, repeating her form of the word. Closer to the human concept of a best friend. But so much more. “My first friend.” He smiled, feeling genuine affection for her. He hoped that she could sense that.

“Why am I here, then, instead of in the Tardis?” she asked tremulously. “Why did you leave me  _ here _ ?” She gestured to the room they were in. The Vault.

“Missy, that was the deal we made...” he started to explain, realizing she probably didn't remember their deal at all.

“No, I mean, what did I do to make you go away?” she interrupted. “Tell me what I should do, how to make you happy...” she insisted, stroking his beard again. “I want to make you happy,” she confessed, voice laden with vulnerability and need. Fuck. The only response that seemed sufficient was to hold her tight:

“You do make me happy,” he choked out. She felt so sharp-edged and fragile against him.

“No, I don't,” she insisted, twisting her way out of his hold, physically shoving him away from herself with a measured insistence. “Stop  _ lying _ to me! I don't understand, why did you leave? What did I do wrong?”

Oh no. Missy, no. Don't think that. The sudden if slight physical separation between them was heartbreaking. He wanted her tentative curiosity back. He took both of her hands in his own, staring into her eyes, willing her to believe him:

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he repeated. She shook her head, tears welling up and overflowing:

“But I must have,” she insisted. “It's all I remember for certain, that you left me because I messed up, I failed.” She lowered her head to hide from him. “Did you go back to River? You smelled like a library last night.”

“No no, not to River, it was a different kind of library,” he assured her. He wanted to explain that as soon as possible, but not while she was doubting herself like this. “Missy what do you remember? About before I left?” He needed to know. Bristol? The Fatality Index? Skaro.

“I don't remember anything from before,” matter of fact again, tears forgotten. Disconnected from reality. “I don't know why you left, only that it was my fault. I failed, so you were free to choose another mate. I didn't expect you to come back... but I am ever so glad that you did,” she assured him, eyes petitioning. “So please, Doctor, tell me. What did I do wrong?”

Shit. 'Free to choose.' Shit shit shit. Fuck. This was his fault. He had forgotten the Reprieve, what it meant. He had instinctively known that he couldn't leave Earth, that his absence was permissible but a delicate thing post-miscarriage. But he had neglected to consider how his absence would appear or feel on her side.

And _mate_ had an even more archaic meaning, one so old that it was incomprehensible to the modern Gallifreyan. Marriage partner and bondmate in one. Forever. A dynasty rather than a small nuclear family. A partnership spanning ages. Such grandparented monarchies had once ruled for millennia. One such had existed on earth and fallen into myth. They had existed for ages untold across the galaxy until they had been banished and Time Lords had been elevated as the pinnacle of Gallifreyan society, the houses an echo of the families of old. Observers rather than influencers or rulers. 

She still wanted him to rule with her at her basest level, perhaps only over a family but rule just the same. This hinted at conquest, but in truth was rooted in her desire and need for him. She wanted him more than the conquest, the conquest had always been an attempt at a honeytrap.

Of course she had begged him not to shut her out, that was the choice before them and it was his right to choose to abandon her just as it was her right to choose to regenerate. How could he have forgotten, allowed himself to succumb to feeling insecure as to think that she shouldn't want him? Well that was the question they were faced with, this was their programmed reaction to an event like this. They had both been asking it, even if it was clear as day that they both wanted each other. Doubt and uncertainty were how they were meant to feel during a Reprieve. It broke weak bonds and strengthened true ones. Now it was time for him to be sure for both of them.

“I'm an idiot,” he confessed, feeling a full rant coming on, a rant against his own stupidity, the Scottish in his voice always thicker when he got like this. “Missy, try to believe me, but it's my fault, not yours. I know you don't understand right now.” He sighed, dropping his face into his hands in frustration. “You're right, the bond lets me out if I want it to... but I didn't leave to find another mate. I left to try to figure out a way to fix our problem. And I was so hellbent on fixing things as soon as possible that I've gone and made them worse.”

He refused to let himself succumb to self-loathing again. Missy's hands were back on his face, helped ground him. “I should never have left you during the Reprieve, and certainly not without explaining to you properly. I was just so wrapped up in my own pain... and you deserve to know the truth.” His breath caught, he could barely breathe with the intensity of his emotions, it was impossible to properly give voice to them. But she had just been vulnerable with him and he needed to reciprocate, needed her to understand...

“I can't lose you Missy,  _ I can't _ . I see now what this looks like, that I wanted out, that I was rejecting you. Nothing could be further from the truth. I blamed  _ myself _ . I know you don't understand--you don't remember do you?--but you forgave me. You didn't blame me at all, and that was worst of all.”

Missy's face wasn't blank anymore. The wheels in her mind were turning again, something that he had said had brought a memory to the surface for her.

“I lost a baby,” she pronounced, still sounding detached from the weight of that event.

“My fault,” he breathed. He needed her to know that. “You almost died because of me, something completely outside of my control, yes, but my fault just the same. I wasn’t here when I should have been. I should have been here to take care of you, to help you through it. I should have been taking better care of you to begin with. I should have thought things through before we had even gotten that far...”

“It wouldn't have changed anything,” Missy interrupted, sounding more her old self than at any other point in their discussion.

“I know,” he agreed. He did even while he blamed himself. He could see all sides of it at once. “But I didn't know how to go on like that, with you looking at me as if I had hung the moon, as if I am the only thing you could ever want, when it was  _ my fault _ . You  _ should _ have blamed me.  _ I blamed me. _ And I was so scared of losing you. I needed to prove myself to you, to earn your forgiveness, and all I could think to do was fix the problem, find a solution.

“But I forgot what leaving you would look like to you. You're usually so independent, but now you're here, fully dependent on me, and it's been so long since we went through a Reprieve, and I wasn't thinking straight. You asked me not to shut you out and I didn't listen, didn't think. I was so wrapped up in my own grief that I didn't want to let you in anymore and yes, I shut you out.”

She studied him for a long moment. There was so much more that he wanted to tell her but he wasn't sure he had the strength. And suddenly she was crawling into his lap. She straddled his legs and kissed him, her lips barely brushing against his whisper-soft at first, tender affectionate pecks, then sliding into a prolonged Eskimo kiss that felt natural and sweet considering her obsession with his nose. She pressed their foreheads together, her eyes drifting closed.

“It's okay,” she told him, impressing her belief on him telepathically with each minute press of flesh to flesh. “It's going to be okay as long as we're together.” 

He choked, soaking up forgiveness he didn't deserve but desperately needed. He knew that despite all his impassioned words it still wasn't enough. But he didn't have any words left as he desperately pressed his mouth to hers, held her to himself. He wanted to believe her, needed her words to be true. She came willingly, her fingertips in his hair as she poured all of her love into him, his fingers on her face as he poured his grateful adoration back.

Their minds flowed together as easily as breathing, the bond flaring back to life with thrilling intensity. How could he have avoided this? It was terrifying, of course it was, but not as terrifying as its alternative. He didn't know how to live without her, he'd barely survived the past couple of months without her, the only balm had been his hope that she would still be waiting for him when he returned.

And she had been. She had stayed because she wanted to please him. She had stayed despite great personal loss. She had stayed despite being angry with and worried for him. She hadn't resorted to violence. 

He was the one who had chosen to leave. How could he ever begin to make that up to her? Losing her now, after having these past blissful decades with her, was unthinkable. He wanted to be steadfast and reliable while she was lost like this. He was needy and desperate instead.

She was practically dancing against his cock now, short, teasing pressure that was starting to short out his too-loud mind and sending his hearts pounding, lungs gasping. He didn't realize Missy was unbuttoning his vest until she had almost finished, which sent his nerve-endings spiraling. He clutched at her wrists, hesitant, and her eyes found his once more:

“I don't deserve this,” he confessed. She seemed to shrink in response.

“Is it something I did?”

“No, no, Missy,” he was quick to assure her. “I'm just not sure if this is something that's appropriate given your current mental state. And given the fact that I have clearly lost some of your trust...” his breath hitched as she pressed her hands underneath his vest, against his chest. Her hands were cool against his flushed skin, tentative.

“You think too much,” she told him. She was absolutely right. She started to rub his nipples, then leaned down to kiss them, open-mouthed and wet, her eyes locked with his. His breathing was becoming increasingly erratic. She nipped at pink flesh that instantly swelled in response and he hissed, jerking beneath her mouth and teeth. She sat up to her full height, and he made an embarrassingly needy sound of protest as she pressed her palms to his chest again, one hand over each heart. “I made my decision a long time ago,” she assured him as his eyes searched her own. “I don't remember much, I don't always know what's real, but I know that I am yours if you still want me.”

“Missy, of course I still want you...” he protested. Had she not been listening to a thing that he had told her?

“Then I need you to show me that you are mine,” she insisted. “It isn't easy for me to forgive you. A part of me is still very, very angry...” her nails scratched ever so lightly in emphasis. “There's no more time for games: the Reprieve is over, it's time for you to decide. Do you intend to break this off for good?” she coaxed, “or renew our bond?”

Her eyes glistened as she stared him down. “I need to  _ know  _ that you aren't going to leave me like this again _. No more shutting me out _ . You're entitled to privacy and autonomy. I will respect that,” she promised. “But I can't live like this, with you denying me your heart and mind. I cannot stand feeling that I'm a burden and unwanted, inferior to your students or friends or any children we  _ might  _ have...”

“Missy, no,” he breathed, shocked almost beyond words. He tried to pull her closer, longing to hold her, but she resisted. “You've taken such good care of me,” he acknowledged. “I know I don't tell you often enough you how much you mean to me...” She set a single fingertip on his lips, halting his stumbling apologies.

“Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it,” she murmured. 

_ Come, bid me do any thing for thee, _ his mind recited in response.

“I don't need more promises,” she clarified, “I need action. I need your body against mine while we sleep. I need your mind against mine as we live side by side. I need you to commit to this and be more mindful of your choices and how they affect me. No more shutting me out. No more treating me like a burden. No more games...”

“Enough, I am engaged,” he returned, his mouth dipping to claim hers once more. If she would not believe his words then he would show her with his body. He pulled his vest out of his waistband, popping open the last of the buttons, and she pushed the fabric off his shoulders, rubbing them encouragingly. She pulled away slightly as he dipped forward, so close and yet so far away from kissing, teasing, their breaths and minds syncing as he finally caught her mouth up with his own again possessively. 

His hands roamed across her body, caressing up her back, plucking open the button at her nape. She blushed, twisting away to retreat across the bed, displaying her covered back as she submissively presented herself to him. She nervously clutched at the bars of the brass bedframe, peering over her shoulder at him shyly. He followed, hands seizing her hips, then sliding to rub against her concealed dimples of Venus. Missy sighed, rocking back against him, rotating her hips beneath his ministrations, surging against his touch. His little seductress. It wasn't long before she was coming undone beneath his hands, making gaspy moans that were amazing, then singing his given name as she came. So responsive.

She collapsed, twisting to face him almost instantly, taking one of his hands and holding it against her cheek, rubbing her face against his palm as she basked in her afterglow. Their minds braided together and slid against one another with joy. Their lips met halfway, his hands cradling her face, brushing her hair back, out of the way as she spread herself out beneath him. She spread her legs as wide as her nightgown would allow, which was not enough for him to press his pelvis between her thighs in the way he wanted. 

He wanted to dry hump her possessively. Rub his scent all over her, mark her skin, possess. He provided a single knee for her to rock against instead, humphing in frustration as she slowly rotated her hips against it, spreading damp juices on his trousered leg. Was she not wearing any knickers? “Do I not get to see your body?” he inquired, trying to imagine what she looked like beneath all that white. She shook her head, biting her lower lip shyly:

“Not yet,” she insisted, blushing, lifting her arms up against her breasts, hiding the peaked nipples that were trying to cut through flannel. “You first.”

He sighed, lifting himself to kneel over her, sliding his knee away from her wet center. She pressed a hand between her legs in response, rubbing lazily, her nightdress tented provocatively above the damp spot she was stimulating herself through. His cock twitched. He watched her continue to pleasure herself as he slid his trousers and pants down his hips. She sat up, beckoning him. He held himself over her as she lay back down, kicking his legs succession to extricate them from constricting fabric. Missy took his penis in hand and started stroking it, encouraging him to full attention. He gasped, arms shuddering as she wrapped her hand around the head tightly, restricting the foreskin ever so slightly as he bucked into her hand, causing delicious stimulation.

His legs were free now, but she had full control of his cock. He hissed at the sensation of his foreskin being pulled back, exposing the head to the air. And then she started massaging his glans. His entire body went rigid in response, shuddering again in the throes of sensation. “Too much?” she asked, switching to sliding his foreskin up and down over his glans.

“Yes, thank you,” he gasped out, still vibrating as she pumped him. “Oh God, I'm close.” She smiled, stilling her motions but not letting go of his quivering cock. “Mistress please,” he begged.

“What is it honey?” she asked, pulling him closer, her free hand wrapping around him to rub across his own dimples of Venus in comfort.

“I want to come inside you,” he begged.

“Not yet,” she rebuked. “I thought you wanted to see me first?”

“Yes, yes, oh yes,” he agreed, babbling. “Please let me see.”

She let go of his cock, easing her nightgown up to her hips tentatively. He could kneel between her legs now, and slid closer, helping her sit up and peel the cloth over her head. Her hair got a bit caught up on the button but he was patient untangling the mess. And then the fabric was gone and she was spread out before him partially reclined, blushing again, but not hesitant enough to cover herself.

He had been right about the weightloss. She wasn't soft around her middle anymore. Her hipbones jutted out above too thin thighs. Her ribs were obvious beneath her breasts, which sagged ever so slightly now. They looked slightly deflated now that there was no need for milk. Her body had been changed by the pregnancy that had been. “Oh Missy,” he gasped, crying. “You're beautiful.”

“Am I as skinny as one of your Earth girls now?” she asked.

“I really wouldn't know,” he soothed. “I only have eyes for you. I've been dreaming of you the entire time I was gone.”

“I know,” she confessed, looking ashamed. “I used to see your dreams sometimes.”

“I'm sorry about that,” he apologized, sliding closer, reaching for her clit.

“It's okay Doctor,” she assured him. She gasped in appreciation as he gently pumped her, then eased back her foreskin to massage her leaking tip as she had done for him. She shuddered, also overstimulated. “Don't stop,” she demanded quietly, her entire body vibrating.

“My dreams changed while we were apart,” he confessed. “I dream about putting my hands inside you,” he confessed. “I dream about helping you give birth.”

“You'd like to put your hands inside me for fun sometime, wouldn't you?” she moaned before thrusting up into his hand, her hips bouncing to punctuate her statement.

“Maybe just one hand,” he confessed, holding her hip, feeling the muscles play beneath his touch. “Would that be okay?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Doctor, I want you,” she gasped. “Inside, need you inside.”

He leaned down to kiss her as he rearranged their limbs, and then she was holding his cock again, guiding him as he gently slid home. She hissed in response, clutching at his shoulders, eyes screwed shut.

“I'm sorry,” he gasped, struggling to hold absolutely still.

“I'm so tight now,” she confessed, tears spreading across her cheeks.

“It's the first time since...” he couldn't breathe him to say it. Fuck, he shouldn't have said anything.

“It's okay,” she assured him, one hand reaching down to tug at her clit. “It's okay with me if you talk about the baby.” She gasped in pleasure as her body relaxed and he slid infinitesimally deeper. “You can move now.”

He kept his thrusts slow and shallow, still close, still not ready for this to be over. It wasn't long until she was moving with him, clenching around him encouragingly, hips rolling beneath his. She was making adorable little noises with each thrust, her eyes rolling into the back of her head in ecstasy. “Like that,” she chanted. “Oh just like that Doctor. Doctor, give it to me...”

Her hands fell to the side, clutching at the duvet, bunched beneath her hips mostly. He took her clit in hand firmly, thumb pressing against her glans again, massaging, paying particular attention to her frenulum. Missy screamed as she came the second time, back arching, frame quavering, clit ejaculating just before her tight cunt started gripping his cock like a vise. His stroke faltered and he barely stopped himself from collapsing on her as he came so powerfully that he was blind for thirty-six point seven seconds.

Her mind was bright against his, so bright. She was using his mind like a crutch though, was rifling through his memories in a way that itched, not that he particularly minded. He managed to heave himself to the side rather than fall on top of her, and she turned to pull him into her arms, still shaking. “I'm so tired,” she confessed, sounding completely her normal self.

“I'm famished,” he returned, glad that he had made a large breakfast. “Are you cold?”

“Yes.” Her teeth were starting to chatter now. She was covered with a sheen of sweat that was fast cooling her off now that she wasn't exerting herself any longer.

“I've got you,” he soothed as soon as he regained control of his limbs. He lifted her over the bed, returning her to her side, lifting the duvet so he could slide her beneath it. “Try some backbacon,” he urged, reaching for one of the slices. She turned her mouth aside stubbornly, “or sausage?” She sighed:

“I'll try to keep down some eggs and beans,” she compromised. He stuffed the bacon into his mouth, chewing as he retrieved the plate, setting it on her still heaving chest.

“You know I intend to fatten you back up as soon as possible,” he griped as he scraped some eggs together on the spoon and slid them into her mouth.

“I know,” she acknowledged. “But Doctor, I thought you said my body was beautiful,” she fluttered her eyelashes at him. Her first attempt at humor since his return. He smiled in response.

“You need more fat on you if you want to have another heat in ten years,” he pointed out, spoonfeeding her another bite. After a pregnancy, successful or not, came a second chance. Ten years to recover before trying again. Usually to provide a sibling. “And you are beautiful. Your body looks this way because you were brave enough to try to have our baby. And I adore you for that.” She sighed, looking a little green as she chewed.

“I don't want to think about being pregnant right now,” she confessed. “Beans.” He took some egg for himself before loading the spoon with beans next. “Oh do be reasonable,” she griped. “I really don't want to be sick right now. And when I was feeling so divine a moment ago.” He shoveled the beans in his own mouth and got her a smaller bite. She took this one without protest.

“Are you not wanting to try again?” he asked, staring at the plate while they both chewed. He licked his thumb and stuffed way too much sausage in his mouth before preparing another spoonful of beans for her.

“You can't keep me down that easily,” she returned dryly, grimacing before accepting the spoon once more. “I insist we try again...if you’re amenable of course, dear.” The Doctor continued to chew feeling equal parts terrified and relieved. “Perhaps a little sausage.” He nodded and obliged her, holding the other end out for her so she could bite off the tip. “I want to hear all about your great solution when I wake up,” she told him, mouth full, “but I really couldn't hope to eat another bite, I'm sorry.”

“Tha's okay,” he assured her, picking the plate up and starting to shovel eggs into his face. She grimaced but rolled towards him, laying her head in his lap, rubbing his thigh soothingly. She started humming as he piled the bacon on her half-eaten toast, folded it in half and started shoving it into his mouth. By the time he finished the rest of their breakfast the humming had stopped and she had fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one recognizes the Shakespeare?


	14. Coming Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy continues to deal with the Doctor's return and her mental degradation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She wasn't sure when or where she was when she next awoke. She was curled up around something warm, was even feeling a little too hot for a nice change. She roused herself enough to discover that it was her mate. He had spectacles perched on the tip of his nose and was reading a book that stank to high heaven. The smell from the night before, unidentified chemicals and dust mixed together in a repulsive cocktail. She wrapped herself farther around his leg, nuzzling into his lap, trying to blot out the stench, before sliding back towards sleep. Blissful sleep.

It was not much later when she truly woke up, stomach complaining. He looked down at her this time, smiling reassuringly, setting the book and glasses aside on his nightstand before reaching down to rub her upper back.

“Missy,” he pronounced warmly. She blinked, feeling disconcerted. Was that her name?

That question would have to wait. Her stomach was refusing to be ignored. She rolled out of bed, staggering towards the loo. She made sure to flip the light switch on as she entered, knelt before the toilet and waited. She ignored the elephant in the room, the bathtub turned sarcophagus. The smell of the toilet bowl alone was enough to make sure her stomach rebelled and brought up most of what she had eaten earlier.

Soft hands tangled in her hair, holding it back from her face. She sighed, embarrassed but grateful to not be alone. 

“I'm sorry, I tried,” she apologized. “Please don't leave me.” She was unable to shake the feeling that it was her fault that he had left, that he might still choose to leave again. Never again, please never again.

“I's okay,” he assured her. “I should have made something lighter.” He helped her stand up and they stood face to face for a long moment. She blushed and turned her back on him. He crossed the room without comment and started to brush his teeth.

It was a struggle to pee just now, and she was glad for a bit of privacy even if she wasn't ready to be alone. Not much came out. She reached for the toilet tissue and cleaned off the tip of her clit, then wiped between her legs gingerly, dropped the tissue in and flushed. She joined him at the sink, still refusing to look at the disused tub. She actually needed to bathe just now, which sounded like a lovely idea since her thighs were sticky, labia sore... but no. Just no. She started to wash her hands, started staring at herself in the mirror. Her appearance warped between lifeless and unfortunate reality, then settled.

“I hate this room now,” she confessed, unable to suppress a shiver, concentrating on what was real so she could ignore what wasn't. Her toothbrush. The toothpaste that he handed her, fingertips brushing against her own just so. How he towered over her by .444 cubits repeating while barefoot. Her mind latched onto the fact that they were both naked. He looked a little thin in the face under his beard, in his hips. He tended to forget to eat when he got too involved in his research. That was where he had been, she realized. Doing research.

For her part, this form had never been so thin. Her hair covered her shoulders and breasts, lying lank. “Will you wash my hair?” she asked. Leaned over the sink to spit. She had gotten some in her mane. She grimaced and wiped it off, rinsed it away. Then leaned down to rinse her mouth out.

“Sure, why not,” he smiled. “Shower?”

She made a sound of agreement. He got towels out of the linen closet and stuck them in the dryer to warm up for a few minutes. She put her toothbrush in the holder. It slid to lean against his toothbrush.

The shower small and would be a tight fit with the two of them inside it. She vaguely remembered him joining her once before. Yes, he had gone down on her here, against this wall. It had been their first time coupling in these bodies. Well, her first time at least. She adjusted the water to run as hot as she could stand and wet herself down before trying to rearrange her limbs to make more room for him as he joining her. She offered him the shampoo and he shook his head, reaching for the conditioner instead.

“Your hair is too dry right now, probably in reaction to your hormones and your diet,” he advised gently, pouring thick globs into his palms.

“Thanks for playing doctor,” she returned, turning to show him her back. Which was when she realized that his name _was_ Doctor. She had just meant to tease him about being a know it all. And about their shared nudity. A triple entendre. What else had she forgotten? 

“Doctor,” she pronounced, trying the word out in her mouth. It didn't feel quite right.

“Hmm?” he returned.

“Where have you been?” she asked, reveling in how good his hands felt massaging her scalp. She pressed her palms against the wall, arching her back in appreciation.

“Cambridge first. Then Johns Hopkins. And then a farm in Tennessee.”

“Tennessee?” she mused. “Isn't that where they try to make Scotch and call it Whiskey?”

“That's Kentucky,” he corrected. He shook the bottle upside down before squirting another palm full out.

“Why?” she asked. She couldn't remember exactly. What research? Her mind was scratching against the walls for purchase. This space was too small and she wanted out of it. He must have felt the panic rising in her. He shushed her, leaning down to kiss the junction of her neck and shoulder:

“Dinna fash,” he soothed. “Just relax.” His hands were in her hair again, spreading the conditioner, gently detangling her hair. Her breathing slowed and she relaxed into his hands. And then his fingertips were at her temples, his mind brushing against her own more noticeably: “I'm here now,” he assured her. She continued to focus on her breathing and his hands as he added water to her hair, though not enough to rinse out the conditioner entirely, then continued to detangle.

“Why did you go?” she repeated. More conditioner, some squishing it about, more detangling. His mind pressed against her own again, unexpected yet familiar. Inquisitive.

“Do you remember the baby?” he asked. She gasped, going rigid beneath his hands. The shower walls were covered with blood now.

“Yes,” she gasped. Her fingers twitched, longing to hold the baby even now. She pressed them to her empty womb. His hands slid down to her shoulders as he steadied.

“Shh,” he soothed. “I want to make sure that never happens again.”

She shook her head violently. No baby?!? Her heart rebelled against such an eventuality. “No more miscarriages,” he assured her, answering her unvoiced question.

“Okay,” she allowed, watching the blood wash down the walls and drain away. She shuffled closer, wanting to lean against him but leaving him a little space. “How?” she asked. He reached for the soap, lathered it up.

“The humans have a procedure, you may have heard of it: In Vitro Fertilization.” She shook her head as he started spreading the slick soap across her back:

“I don't know.” She couldn't remember if she'd heard of it or not. 

“They give the mother drugs so she makes extra eggs,” he explained, hand dipping to rub the skin over her ovaries for just a moment, to tangle his fingers with hers in support for a long moment before continuing to scrub her lower back, her dimples, her arse, still patiently expounding. “Then they take the eggs out of her and fertilize the eggs in a lab. It's easier for the sperm to take hold this way and they can see which eggs are safe to put back in the mother, have the best chance.” His hands swept around, up her abdomen, spreading the soap, caressing hollow skin, barely brushing against the undersides of her breasts. Her breathing was speeding up for a different reason now.

“Okay,” she acknowledged, trying to ignore the fact that her skin was tingling everywhere he touched. “Can you be sure the baby will survive?” she petitioned.

“I'd only give you back the eggs that have the best chance of thriving, yes.” 

“But what about the...others?” she asked. What about the ones that didn't have a chance?

“They won't suffer this way,” he assured her gently, hands sliding up and down her arms. “They'd be gone before they could feel any of it.” She blinked back tears, grateful that he was at her back. She let herself tip closer, lean against him. “And there are other things I want to do to make your body more friendly towards my human DNA, to support the pregnancy,” he pressed on, hands never stopping their work, stroking across her chest tenderly. She lifted her hands to cover his and guided his palms lower, to cover her breasts. Her nipples poked eagerly against his soft palms. No callouses. An intellectual's hands. He started to massage her empty breasts, his cock stirring between them.

“Like what?” she rasped out, breathing with him, leaning back to press closer into his pelvis. He cleared his throat:

“Some vaccinations, to start,” he explained. “I know your body is perfectly impervious to diseases on Earth; a baby might not be as strong.” She nodded her understanding. “And sex in the first two sexamesters.”

“No,” she demurred, half horrified, half thrilled. That was against the rules. Very much against the rules.

“I'll be gentle,” he assured her, holding her to himself, cupping a breast again. “I promise you, it would be beneficial.”

“How?” she asked. What she really wanted to know was how he could be sure. Her doctors on Gallifrey had always seemed so insistent that sex was far too great a risk in her case. An unnecessary risk at that. Unseemly outside of heat. Never mind the fact that she often _wanted_ sex outside of heat because her body was still gagging for it even if her mind just wasn’t. Pregnancy often left her feeling insecure and needy, not unlike now. She wondered if her body even understood what was going on right now.

“It reduces stress,” he soothed, setting the soap aside entirely and reaching for the conditioner _yet again_. “It will strengthen our bond. Your body makes happy hormones and you'll feel better.”

"Happy hormones?" she repeated, doubt in her voice, a hint of a laugh or scoff.

"Love hormones," he clarified, his voice barely above a whisper. "At least, that's how it works with Human women." And then his hands were in her hair again, massaging her scalp and scrunching it all around. “And my sperm will help support your immune system, let your body know that baby is meant to stick around.”

She squirmed, trying not to moan wanting his fingers lower now. She tried to focus on science rather than the way his touch made her feel vulnerable and needy. She supposed that it all made sense. She wasn't sure she understood pregnancy well enough to make these sorts of decisions. But she was used to deferring to her doctors, had always been too frightened to follow her instincts. She turned in his arms, lifting her hands to cup around his neck:

“Doctor, what do I do?” she asked pressing herself against him. “I still don't remember things,” she confessed. “I didn't even know your name when I woke up.” She hadn’t known her own name, only that he was hers and she was his.

“Hey, hey we have a decade to prepare,” he reminded her, “you don't have to decide today. Or we can go on in the old way if you prefer. It's up to you...”

“No I...” she thought about it a moment longer. “I trust you,” she assured him. “And I want to try to fix this, too, thank you for finding... for finding me options.” He smiled down at her, and she pulled him down for a heated kiss.

She pressed her nose against the side of his when it was over, holding him just a moment longer. “How can you love me while I'm like this?” she asked. Her mind was useless. She felt as if she was missing a part of herself. A very important part. He smiled against her forehead before kissing her there affectionately:

“I haven't even been back a day,” he objected, trying to reassure her. “Do ye think I’m sick of you already?” She glared up at him. He was deflecting. He sighed: “What do you remember?”

“We had a baby boy,” she told him. “Your name is Doctor Who,” she winked at his bemused expression. “You left to figure out how to fix me...”

“No, no,” he told her gently. “I left so I could learn how to support you in the way you deserve.” Her heart jumped up into her throat:

“Do I deserve a baby?” she asked. “I know that I deserve to be here, that a part of me wants to do terrible things to you, to others, even now.” He smiled sadly, wrapping his arms around her, hiding his face again. She pushed him just far enough away to see his face. “I'm serious, Doctor.”

“I know,” he told her seriously. “It's good that you know that.”

“Is it?” she asked, clinging to him, tilting her face up towards him expectantly.

“It's progress,” he told her. “Slow, painful progress. And you deserve a baby. If anyone can deserve a baby, you do.”

They blinked at each other, eyes bright, but no actual tears. “The rest will come with time. I may be able to help with the memory loss, okay?” She nodded, hoping that what he said was true. “It will help to get you eating again, gaining weight.”

She sighed, not the slightest bit interested in food. “It will help,” he scolded. “I've gone and done all of this research, studied actual _medicine_ ,” she giggled, trying to imagine how hopeless he must have been. “The least you can do is pull your own weight. I cannae wash your hair every day,” he griped. She laughed, but he was supporting at least half her weight, her own strength having already been depleted for the day.

“A baby will need food?” she confirmed.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Lots of food, and exercise, and love. And you have to do the heavy lifting for the first two years.” She nodded. “I am hoping that I can help you out with the feeling sick, too,” he assured her.

“That would be nice,” she agreed. The water was gradually getting colder. “I think it's time to get out,” she suggested. He helped her rinse her hair some, but it seemed to her he was being less than thorough. Was he only partially rinsing it out?

“Okay,” he approved, turning off the water. “Can you get the door?”

He kept her from collapsing as she pushed against the frosted glass. It resisted, then swung open suddenly, startling despite the fact that opening it had been her objective. She clutched at the Doctor as he shuffled them over to her pouf. He sat her down, and she swayed as he let go, but she was able to right herself without his help. She was already shivering.

The Doctor was back nearly instantly with a fluffy, warm towel. It smelled like their washing powder and home. He wrapped it around her, careful to make sure it wasn't lying heavy on her hair. He had something else for her, some tube of gel that had long sat in the medicine cabinet but she had never opened. He used some in her hair, spreading it through with arched fingers, then had her bend over so he could tie a flour sack towel around her head. She was still shivering, but it was nice to get her wet hair off her neck, though sitting up after bending over had made her even dizzier. He used the remnants of the gel on his hands in his own hair then moved away to put it back in the cabinet.

He came back and knelt down before her, rubbing her arms through the towel, using friction to generate heat. “What do you say, do you want to slip into some of my pajamas or maybe just a robe?”

“You said something earlier about putting your hands inside me,” she remembered. He coughed to cover a laugh or embarrassment, she wasn't sure which.

“We would have to build up to that sweetheart,” he informed her. “Your body's still recovering and I don't think you're feeling relaxed enough just now.” She sighed heavily, knowing that she was currently wound tighter than a watch that was a millimeter away from destruction. “You let me know when you trust me enough to start working towards that,” he whispered. “There’s no rush.”

“I still want you to touch me?” she tried not to beg. “Can you put your pretty cock inside me again in a bit?” she suggested. She was currently feeling lightheaded. And needy.

“Pretty?” he asked. “That's a low blow.”

“And here I thought it was a compliment and you would get a big head,” she confessed. “Or at the very least a stiff one.” He was laughing at her now. She was ready to cry now, and she really didn't want him to see that. She lowered her face into her hands, trying to keep her body from shaking. “I'm sorry,” he chuckled. “Missy, in all of the years I've known you, you've never been this articulate about sex, it really is quite enlightening.”

“Is that good?” she asked, still trying very hard not to cry. Her emotions were all over the place.

“Well I'd rather you were honest with me about what you're feeling rather than trying to hide,” he informed her. She made herself put her hands in her lap and situ p straight. His face was warm, devoid of judgment. “If you need anything, anything at all, I _want_ you to let me know. You don't need to feel embarrassed... And it is flattering to feel wanted.”

“I want my short little nightgown and a blanket to wrap up in,” she requested. He retrieved the shortest nightgown she owned, sleek and black, and a thick, fluffy blanket to replace the fluffy, damp towel. With her prepared, he turned to the wardrobe with a mind on his own clothing. She watched him put on his pants one leg at a time. The absurdity of it made her feel buoyant. He was really here.

“Do you think you could bear it for me to go shopping today?” he asked gently out of the blue. Missy found that she suddenly couldn't breathe. The Doctor knelt before her again, pressing his hands to her face, making soothing noises. “Dinna fash, it can wait for another day,” he assured her kindly.

“Can I have a knife?” she asked once the room had stopped spinning and her breathing had equalized.

“I really don't think that's a good idea,” he declined, standing to rifle through the wardrobe more hurriedly now. Trousers next.

“Pity, I'd really like to murder Black Jack right now,” she observed.

“Who?” he asked, seemingly at a loss as he pulled on a fresh undervest.

“Fictional character, anti-Scottish toff,” she assured him. “Don't worry, he would deserve it, which you well know since you're quoting from the book he's featured in.”

“I may have seen it lying around,” he shrugged. Of course it had been lying around, he had bought it for her.

“I’ve always wondered how you came to buy it,” she probed, the thought coming to her naturally. It was a more violent story than he normally allowed her. Though it amused him to share the humans’ ideas on time travel with her. (How did she know these things?)

“I asked the lady in a shop to recommend a book for my wife who loves to read,” he confessed, doing up another vest with far too many buttons. “She thought she was being sly, that she'd help out our sex life. Got me to buy the entire set as you may recall.” He stood watching her as she tried to decide whether to pass out. She must look deathly pale.

“I think I need to lie down again,” she confessed. Her hearts were pounding. He tsked, wrapping her blanket more tightly around her shoulders.

“How about I make you a bite to eat and you try to sit up in bed for a while?” he bargained. She rolled her eyes.

“You're exhausting,” she griped. He smiled kindly, rubbing her back:

“I'll read to you if you like.” She sighed:

“More cuddles,” she bargained, tugging at the collar of his vest to undo the top button. She closed her eyes in humiliation: “I don't think I can walk.”

He smiled, catching her up in his arms as if she weighed nothing and spinning around to carry her back into the main room. Upon which he carried her to her chesterfield chair rather than the bed. She made a sound of disagreement but was rather at his mercy.

“Just while we eat?” he cajoled. She rolled her eyes but acquiesced.

She dozed while he puttered the in the kitchen. She felt warm and safe hearing him cook for her. It felt nice to be cared for, but she wanted to try to feed herself this time. She even felt the slightest bit hungry.

A few minutes later he was setting food on the end table between them. A custard cup full of oatmeal with brown sugar sprinkled on top and a fresh banana curved around the side, still slightly green. The way she liked it.

“I haven’t seen a banana in…” she drifted off. Months, her mind guessed.

“I bought a couple yesterday while I was waiting at the train station,” he confessed, peeling one for himself. “Habit really. I was too nervous to eat just then. Didn’t remember them until just now.” She peeled hers with vibrating hands, broke off a piece and brought it to her mouth. Perfect. Firm, fresh fruit. The slightest hint of green, bitter and strong. Maybe she should let him do the shopping. Maybe not.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand,” she confessed. He made a sound that told her he was listening. “The _Outlander_ novels haven’t been published yet.” Right? She'd realized what year they were in about a decade ago. The sell-by dates on their food packaging were a dead give away. He froze, reached for a napkin to wipe his mouth and hands.

“Yes, well…” he hesitated. “I bought them sometime when Clara was with me on and off again,” he confessed, reaching for his sandwich. “It’s all rather hazy.” Clara. His pet. Pretty little thing with big brown eyes. Before he'd come back to her. Before he'd put her here.

“Did you buy them for River?” she asked. He shook his head, finally met her eyes:

“No, I bought them for you.” Her heart clenched. “It was your birthday I think,” he confessed. “Clara used to say that she had met you in a shop, and I got out of her when and where and...I was looking for you really. I spent a lot of time looking while she was busy... teaching, I think.” It was his turn to struggle with his memory. She reached for the little bowl of oatmeal, cupping it in her hands.

“Not when you were the boy in the bowtie?” she asked dubiously. He was clear in her mind suddenly. River's version of the Doctor. She had been aware of his previous form but never found the nerve to try to meet him, not even in disguise. She’d stayed well clear, not wanting to tangle with his other wife. She tentatively took a bite, not sure if it was still too hot...

“No, after…” he hesitated. “After the Brig killed you as it were.” Memories flowed through her fingertips, of rough stone and a whiff of ozone. A familiar cyberman standing at attention.

“You knew I was still alive,” she stated, exultant.

“Of course I did,” he scoffed, then went very, very still. She carried on eating while he brooded. It took him a long time to spit out what he was thinking. “The only time I’ve ever been scared on that front was when you miscarried,” he confessed. She reached out to him, and he caught up her hand. “You almost died,” he said, voice shaking, panic rising. “You almost died because…”

“Because I chose to try on being a woman again,” she told him firmly. “And you wanted to court me as soon as you knew?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, his emotions no longer spiraling out of control, successfully averted from self-loathing midstride. “Yes, a part of me did. I fought against it so hard. You had given me Clara after all.” She laughed:

“Clara was a miniature version of me,” she told him. “Of course you would fall in love with her.”

“Clara and I…” he struggled. “We flirted, yes, but we were never like that.”

“She didn’t need to bed you to control you,” she told him. “She had you wrapped around her little finger.”

“Missy, what I’m trying to tell you is that there’s been no one else like you.”

“You keep saying that,” she agreed. “But you were very convincing at running away from me, at ignoring me.” Horror was wrapping around herself. She could hear mechanical voices shouting angrily at her from very far off, her skin was crawling with the memory of fresh scars...

“This ring,” he showed her, interrupting the voices, instantly driving the darkness away. “How long do you think I’ve been wearing this ring?” His bond ring flashed on his hand dully. The metal wasn’t shiny or vibrant anymore, it was marred and worn. It was very old after all and she would very much have liked to replace it but of course needs must. She let her mind slide back to the memories he had helped her recover so far.

“You were wearing it in my Cybercrypt,” she knew. Her mind wasn’t getting much traction elsewhere. Only… ”I already knew you would be wearing it,” she mused. “It’s the reason why I kissed you.” Their eyes met.

“How long were you watching me I wonder,” he mused. “The truth is, I’ve always worn this,” he held up his hand so she could see, using his thumb to make it wiggle. “You have a little trouble finding yourself at first, so you try out a few outfits. I spent a night running around London in the freezing cold. The first thing I did when I found my Tardis again was pull this out and put it on.” 

“You did?” she asked very quietly.

“My hand felt naked without it,” he confirmed. “I know I flirted with Clara, we danced around it but both knew it was never meant to be. It was because she was an enigma. That’s why my mind is still hung up on her, because it’s a mystery I can’t solve. But I remember that when I put this ring on I promised myself that I would do better, that I wouldn’t let myself get too involved, that you and River deserved more of me. It’s just...the universe kept pulling the two us together.”

“That tends to happen when one jumps into a timestream,” she huffed, scraping the last of the oatmeal from the bottom of her cup.

“Is that what she did? I thought I was going mad. I mean how does she end up in Victorian London and a Dalek insane asylum hundreds of years into her future before she even starts traveling with me? I’ve got random gaps where there shouldn’t be any all up and down my timeline.” He seemed to melt into his chair, rubbing his hand through his now dry hair.

“I think…” she hesitated. “I think instead of reading to me you should go shopping,” she stated. His eyes widened in surprise:

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I mean no but...how long until the new term starts?”

“A couple of weeks,” he admitted.

“I need to get used to the idea of being alone, to know that you’re coming back to me.” He rubbed the hair on his chin thoughtfully, then shook his head once in agreement.

“It shouldn’t take more than two hours…” he mused. He must have seen the panic in her face: “One hour, one,” he amended. She nodded.

“An extra hour each day,” she told him, gripping the arms of her chair tightly. “Two hours tomorrow, three the next.”

“That sounds reasonable,” he confirmed, placing a comforting hand over hers. “Do you want to lie down or should I make some tea?”

“Tea,” she decided in a shaky voice. Sleep would be preferable in a way but she couldn’t imagine sleeping without him. And the point was to get used to him being gone, not ignore it.

It was difficult just to remain seated while he puttered about cleaning up their lunch, pulling on a jacket, pouring her a cuppa. She was full of nervous energy and her earlier fatigue was gone. He set a couple of books next to her on the table, buttoning his jacket.  “The book you were reading?” she asked.

“Some doctors I was working with recommended it,” he told her. “I thought you might be interested.” She nodded. He had also brought over another thinner volume. “Their paper on IVF is here, too,” he opened it up to a page that was marked with a tiny piece of yellow paper. It was stuck to the page. She peeled it off and reapplied it carefully, making sure it sat parallel to the words on the page. “Missy?” She set the book aside, giving him her full attention: “You’re sure you’ll be okay?” he asked.

“No,” she confessed. “But I want you to go anyway.” He knelt before her, pressing kisses into her hands, then held them to his chest as he looked up at her:

“You’re sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” she agreed. He tried to give her a smile, but it didn’t really work. “One hour,” he promised.

She listened to him go. She started to count the seconds. She sipped her tea. She longed for milk to put in it. She hadn't had milk in an age. She adjusted her blanket around herself. Five minutes.

She picked up the slim book. It was barely thicker than a magazine, paperback. There were multiple academic papers in it, that much she could ascertain. They were all written in...English? Her mind couldn’t grasp the letters. There were grainy black and white photographs of minuscule, magnified ova. A chance at creating life in a new way. Her chest felt tight with inexplicable hope. She set the book aside. Ten minutes.

She poured herself another cup of tea. She drank it all far too quickly. It burnt her tongue and she spilled a bit. Her hands were shaking. It wasn't only because she was cold. She needed to use the loo. She braced herself in her chair, trying to ignore the whispers at the edges of the room. Fifteen minutes.

She forced herself to her feet, abandoning her blanket in her chair. She made herself walk towards the en suite, each step measured. She could do this. She turned the light on before making herself look into the room. The tub was red again. She made herself not run to the toilet. She made herself stand still to use it. She made herself wash her hands. She made herself let her hair down, staring into her pale face in the mirror, hanging the damp towel up to dry. Her hair was actually curly, was everywhere. She let herself touch it for a moment, tried to arrange it without pulling at it. She took a bracing breath and made herself walk back to her chair with measured steps. Twenty minutes.

She wrapped herself back up in the blanket and tried to calm her breathing. Meditation, that was what it was called. It wasn’t working. Her breathing was getting worse. Her hands were twitching now. Twenty-five minutes.

She walked to the bed, still wrapped in her blanket, and threw herself on it. She pulled his pillow to herself and pulled it to her chest, inhaling deeply. It smelled like her shampoo and conditioner, but there were hints of him underneath. Smelling him helped. A bit. He would be back. Thirty minutes.

She tried to go to sleep. She really, really tried. She continued to count the seconds, the heartbeats. She continued to regulate her breathing. She closed her eyes against the shadows. Forty minutes.

She threw the blanket off herself, abandoned the pillow. She pulled at her hair, forced herself to stop. She dashed into the en suite, retrieved a wrapped bar of soap from the cabinet, retreated back into the sunlit room. Vault. Why was it called Vault? She sat on her nest and peeled the paper off in little pieces, building them into a little pile. She longed to burn them but had no fire. Forty-five minutes.

She dug her nail into the soap and started to carve the words away. The letters she couldn’t read. The soap lodged itself into the space between her thumbtip and thumbnail. It hurt. She kept digging away, little chunks of his scent. The Doctor, Theta Sigma, my heart. She found herself chanting his name, all thirty-eight syllables, whispering them like a supplicant with a rosary. He would be back. When was he coming back? Fifty minutes.

She abandoned the bed and approached the door. She usually ignored the door. She paced in front of it, continuing to leave little chunks of soap here and there. He wasn’t coming. Her nail broke. She used her teeth to tear the remnant away, spat out the taste of soap. The taste and scent of betrayal welled up inside her, threatening to overwhelm her. Echoes of alien minds pressed against her own, judging her, feeling repulsion and disgust. She deserved death. She had deserved the torture on the Dalek homeworld. She threw the remnants of the bar away from herself. She sang his name. Fifty-five minutes.

She sat on the floor in front of the door and pulled her knees to her chest, started to rock herself, still singing absently. There was a noise outside, another lie. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see, put her fingers in her ears, not wanting to hear, and sang louder. Hands grasped at her shoulders and she screamed, she wouldn’t let them take her…

“Missy!” his voice cut through the cacophony, bringing her back down to the floor she was huddled on. He called her by another name then. Her true name. Sunlight and laughter and promise scattered behind her eyes. He shushed her, wrapping his frame around hers, holding her to himself, pulling her into his lap. She sobbed.

“Doctor,” she called, pressing her face to his throat, drinking in his scent. She repeated all of his names back to him in succession.

“Yes, that’s me,” he confirmed for her. She shuddered against him. Her hair was still damp. She was deathly cold. He rubbed her arms briskly, then went back to holding her tightly against himself.

“You came back,” she breathed, chest soaring with relief. She unbuttoned his vest, pressing her face closer, listening to the beating of his hearts. He breathed deeply, and she matched him breath for breath.

“I love you,” he told her. “I’ll always come back,” he promised. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Closer to 6k words this chapter. That's slightly more reasonable isn't it? Or are 7k chapters okay with everyone? And this is officially the longest fic i've ever written now. I've checked.
> 
> The play was Much Ado About Nothing. And since this came up PMing a reader recently: i'm not British. Well i have a wee bit of British blood in me. But i'm American. An American who's trying to write in the Queen's English and tried out making the last chapter sound more Scottish. It didn't make the cut. They were speaking in Gallifreyan anyway (still are...has anyone noticed?).


	15. Therapy II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor begins to reintegrate himself into Bristol academia and begins a concerted effort to rehabilitate Missy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to new beta [D_f_m22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_f_m22/pseuds/D_f_m22) whose comments and questions and support have been a Godsend.

Returning to Bristol after so long away almost felt surreal. He’d been in so much pain the last time he’d walked these pathways and halls. The loss still hurt but had faded from the forefront of his mind, had lost the totality of its hold on him. The University and its surrounding environs felt familiar, and the first hints of autumn were in the crisp air, and he was glad that he was back. He felt a sense of eager anticipation at the beginning of most semesters and this one was no different.

Most things were the same, some had changed a little. There was a new fishmonger that was convenient that he took advantage of. The electronics shop had a Betamax VCR on display in the window. One of the baggers at his usual supermarket had finished secondary school and was learning the cash register, confessed that she would be starting classes this semester and was disappointed she hadn’t managed to get into one of his classes. He had seen her at his weekly lectures on multiple occasions and he assured her that she would still be welcome to those.

Her supervisor knew him by name (Doctor Basil Smith as he was known to everyone hereabouts) asked if he had enjoyed his holiday and how the Mrs. was. Which had started the _first_ conversation since his settling in Bristol about spouses or lack thereof.

“Mrs.?” the trainee had sputtered out. “But I thought…” she stopped herself from saying anything, and the Doctor smiled kindly at her, not oblivious to the glare that her supervisor was currently giving her.

“That’s quite all right,” he assured them both. “Nardole is the research assistant I inherited from an old colleague,” he explained. “He does tend to follow me about, but I’m not his type. Let’s just say that the Mrs. doesn’t get out much.” At all. The older woman had been fishing, perhaps hoping that he’d say he was single. She was widowed now as he recalled.

Where did you go? To visit some colleagues in America. No he hadn’t done much sightseeing, he’d actually been working.  What sort of work? Just research. Boring theoretical astrophysics. And then:

“Do you have any children, Doctor Smith?” she asked next. This sort of thing would _not_ have been asked on Gallifrey but most of the women who worked here loved to ask after children.

“Not at home,” he sidestepped. “Not anymore. Just me for my wife to look after anymore.” The women laughed, no doubt thinking men were hopeless. It was a common jibe from human women. He never used to be to so self deprecating. He realized that he liked it. Liked playing the idiot rather than bragging about his intelligence. It was the old dynamic he had always had with Missy. He was a genius, but she made him look like an idiot.

He insisted on bagging his own groceries (per usual), but noticed that people were being particularly attentive today.  Well it was the first time he had spent the summer hols away ever and now he had professed to having a wife that no one had ever met. Or seen. The rumor mill would be a tizzy. Fortunately he wasn’t stocking up just yet, he had only chosen essentials for the most part. His only somewhat odd decision was his unexpected find of “avocado pears”...which of course weren’t pears at all, but he knew Missy was fond of them. So he’d pretty well cleaned them out of a food that _no one_ ate.

He had used up more time talking than he had anticipated. He’d already visited the bank and made a large withdrawal. He stood outside the electronics store for a while, considering, but didn’t go inside. He longed to visit the local used bookstore but wanted to wait until he had more time to browse.

He visited his office and was dismayed but not entirely surprised to find no sign of the Tardis. Or Nardole. His message box was overflowing. He picked up some work. Administrative nonsense for the new term, which wasn’t difficult, just time consuming and boring. He discovered that he had a department meeting to attend at the end of the week. There was a used piano being advertised on one of the bulletin boards. He snagged the entire flyer rather than try to find pen and paper to jot down the number.

That was all the time he had as it turned out. He carried his shopping and briefcase downstairs and outside, a bounce in his step. He’d call about the piano tomorrow. He had no idea how he would manage moving it without the Tardis, but he’d think of something.

He could hear her keening as he stepped into the usually silent basement that housed the Vault. Her voice was sing song, the words indistinct. He hightailed it down the stairs, sonic already buzzing, sack bouncing against his leg. The eggs would surely be crushed.

His fingers flew across the controls. He messed up halfway through and it locked him out for fifteen seconds, forcing him to start over. He swore and tried again, more careful this time. He made it through all four codes without faltering.

She was rocking back and forth in a fetal position directly in front of the doors. Her fingers were pressed into her ears, eyes scrunched shut, hair swaying as she chanted his name. He set the shopping and his briefcase just inside the door and descended upon her. She flailed in response to his touch, howling. He shouted her name.

Everything stopped. Her eyes opened. She came back to him. His voice caressed her birth name again, calmly this time, no need to raise his voice. She let it wash over her, her eyes far away, not with him. He tried to make soothing noises. He tried not to panic. And then she was with him again, calling to him:

“Doctor,” she pronounced, the first English she had used since he had come back to Bristol. He folded his body around hers, and she pressed herself into his side like a chick under its mother’s wing. He pulled her into his lap, needing to get her off the cool floor. She was quivering like a leaf and felt just as liable to float away. Her entire frame shook with quiet sobs. She was breathing his scent in again, grounding herself. She started to recite his names one at a time, perfectly clearly, between great gasping inhalations. She lingered on his birth name. It was her lifeline.

“Yes, that’s me,” he corroborated for her. She went on trembling against him. Her hair tickled his nose, vibrating right along with her. She was worryingly cold to the touch. He rubbed her arms briskly, then went back to holding her tightly against himself.

“You came back,” she observed, sounding completely sane, her voice full of awe. She peeled open his vest, pressing her face against him closer still. He breathed deeply, modeling rather than instructing, and she instantly started copying him.

“I love you,” he reminded her. “I’ll always come back,” he promised. “Always.” He pressed his mouth to her forehead. She was still cold. But she was sweating at the same time.

He caught her up to his chest and stood, carrying her over to her chair. She whined as he set her in it. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised as he lunged for the nearest fan. He turned it on and pointed it at her.

“Cold,” she objected. He dashed for the shopping, snatching it up and rifling through it as he hurried back. He pulled out the carton of orange juice, fumbling to open the packaging. Why did they have to use these ridiculous paper cartons? They were needlessly difficult. The paper tore, and he swore, but reached for Missy’s empty teacup, still at hand, sloshing liquid across the table as he poured. The juice flowed towards the books. He held the cup up to Missy’s lips:

“Please drink,” he petitioned.

She silently sipped, her hand wrapped around his own, obedient but trying to slow the flow that he was tilting into her mouth. She finished it all in one go. More. She watched him pour, reached out to touch his hand.

“Your books,” she prompted, taking the cup for herself.

“They don’t matter,” he answered, watching her drink. She drained the cup again.

“Please,” she petitioned. “They’re important to you, and I don’t want them ruined.”

He left her side long enough to retrieve an old kitchen towel and a damp flannel. She had picked them up, had the book in her lap, was holding the sodden journal up over the spill, watching it drip. He took it from her, tore out the sodden pages at the back, then handed what was left back to her. He wiped the mess up with the towel, then wiped it clean with the damp cloth. “I hate being a bother...” she confessed.

“You aren’t,” he denied.

“There’s cleaner under the sink,” she pointed out. He laughed, but carried the ruined pages to the wastebasket before retrieving the cleaner. He sprayed the table and wiped it once more.

“There, are you happy?” he prompted.

“I’m not unhappy, I’m cold.” He carried the juice to the fridge, stowed the cleaner and sodden towels under the sink, put the kettle on. Her blanket was on the bed, he crossed the room to retrieve it. When he picked it up he was startled to see ivory flakes scatter. He had uncovered a tiny pile. He picked a bit up, sniffed it...soap? He shook the blanket out, would deal with that later. Crossed the room and tucked soft warmth around her. She sighed appreciatively. He made tea, grabbed a spoon and the salt shaker.

She was looking better by the time he got back. She accepted the tea gratefully, cupping it in her hands, enjoying the warmth. She blew on it, watching the steam dance.He turned off the fan. “Oh,” he reached into the bag, pulled out milk, and took more care opening the carton this time. He poured more than a little in and Missy thanked him.

He could put the shopping away. It would only take a minute, and she was perfectly calm now. But he wanted to talk while things were still fresh in her mind

“I need you to tell me what it was like for you,” he prompted, taking the seat beside her. “What brought on the panic attack?” She stared at her hands a long while. He didn’t press her, reached for the market bag and started rearranging…the eggs were miraculously in tact.

“I couldn’t read the books,” she said quietly.

“It’s okay if you need more time,” he assured her.

“No, no, you don’t understand, I can’t read,” poured out of her in a rush. “I’ve forgotten British-language,” she confessed more calmly.

“English,” he corrected softly in said language. “Tardis isn’t here right now to help with that.” She relaxed minutely, took a sip of her tea. Then seemed to realize and tensed again:

“Where is she?!?”

“I sent Nardole on a side mission,” he explained. “He should have been back almost immediately. It’s why I stayed away for so long, I thought he was here taking care of you.” There was a long pause. “But surely that isn’t the only reason…”

“No, I,” she agreed, mind working furiously. “I managed to use the toilet without falling apart. But the voices wouldn’t leave me alone… and I couldn’t remember your smell and...” she closed her eyes and shook her head.

“Voices?” he pressed gently.

“I see things,” she whispered, “hear people who aren’t there.”

“What, the people outside?” he asked for clarification. There weren’t any students about but there were the teachers and administrative staff currently on campus.

“No, I shut them out,” she assured him. “I’ve been good, I have been.”

“Then who?” he asked. She shook her head, on the verge of tears:

“I don’t remember,” she told him. “But I can’t shut them out, I’ve tried. I don't always realize they’re not real.”

“Okay,” he told her calmly. She drank some more tea to refortify herself. “What do they say?” She shook her head slowly, rocking in her chair a bit, looking uncertain. “Do you mind if I take a look?” he asked, leaning forward. “See what I can find out?”

Missy blinked rapidly and nodded. She was clearly struggling. He rose to kneel before her, and she sat up on the edge of the seat to make it easier for him to reach. He set her teacup aside, adjusted the blanket around her back, seeing as how her body heat wouldn’t be reflecting back at her anymore. It was easier for a human female to keep warm than a Time Lady. Missy’s body temperature was lower than a human's by default.

He rubbed her arms through the blanket again, smiled at her. “Okay?” he asked. She nodded. “I want you to think about the voices, what it’s like to hear them, so I can hear them, understand?”

“Yes,” she stated ever so quietly. He lifted his hands up to her face, hovering:

“Here we go,” he instructed, “deep breath.” She inhaled slowly and he pressed his fingertips to her temples and slipped into her mind.

One voice stood out above all of the others, one mind really. He was the one speaking, was describing just one of the war crimes she was accused of. Killing Daleks who were crying out for mercy during the Last Great Time War. She’d designed and built a weapon that turned them inside out, still conscious, and then slowly melted them alive. Each death lasted an agonizing twelve minutes. Their shields were unable to adapt as they usually did. She’d wiped out thousands in this way on multiple occasions. The voice was describing those deaths in detail, even going on to describe where one such Dalek had worked. Not on the front lines being his insinuation.

But the audible voice wasn’t the only...well, voice, that she could hear. She could hear the minds of everyone else in the room. The analytical, authoritative minds of the judges who were hearing her case. The inquisitive, horrified minds of the people in the audience. All of the barrister’s inner recrimination, worse than his spoken words even, his sense of justice. A general aura of hatred towards her, even sympathy towards her victims. All of it at once. And as the description went on it all grew, all of the disgust and empathy and accusations reached a pitch that felt like an assault.

It was shocking, he had to remind himself that the tidal wave wasn’t directed towards him and disconnect himself from the emotions. He showed Missy how to shut the door on this memory, how to lock it tight. But he knew she had more like them. Her trial had surely gone on for days, if not weeks.

He pulled away from Missy’s mind. She was crying now, silently, huge tears lingering on her cheeks before dripping down her throat unheeded. He cupped her cheeks in his hands and wiped them away with his thumbs.

“You deserve to be happy,” he told her gently.

“I deserve to die,” she objected.

“I understand,” he assured her. “I’ve felt the same guilt. But you didn’t ask to be resurrected to fight in the Last Great Time War or for the High Council to send you the sound of the drums. You didn’t choose for our daughter to be a civilian casualty in _the_ Great War. I did terrible things during that time as well, things I will never forgive myself for. Things that I will always have nightmares about.” Fear of what he had become and could become again if he let himself.

“I forgive you,” she stated plainly, easily. She accepted him as he was and had been and could be. All of it without hesitation.

“And I forgive you,” he returned. “Do you think I’m keeping you here to make sure you don’t hurt others?” he asked. “No, I’m keeping you here so you stop hurting yourself. Okay?” She nodded.

“We made a deal,” she stated. She could remember the deal now. Good.

“We made a deal,” he confirmed. “And I’m amending it slightly. You proved to me before that you could be trusted to feel the minds of people who are on campus, I want you to stop shutting them out.”

“No,” she shook her head frantically. “I don’t want to hear them hating me.”

“Sh sh shhh,” he soothed. “They won’t hate you. They don’t even know you’re here.” He carried on wiping her tears away. “Trust me. Open your mind, tell me what you feel.” Her breathing was all over the place. She exhaled slowly, inhaled, and closed her eyes. She sighed.

“Someone is drinking coffee just outside, they’re waiting for someone.”

“Good,” he encouraged, “what else?”

“Secretaries, typing, filing, the usual.” Her eyes moved back and forth beneath her closed eyelids. “Someone new is in Oglesby’s office,” she realized, her eyes opening, voice resentful. He shook his head:

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But you have seniority!” she insisted. He laughed. This she remembered?

“Missy, I turned them down. It’s a more direct route to the Vault from my office. Which is plenty big, to be honest, I mean the Tardis fits in it with room to spare and I like the light.”

“Oh,” she realized. She turned her focus back to the minds that she could feel right now. “I don’t know what they’re thinking because it’s all in English except...the new mind, she’s thinking in Russian.”

“Really?” he raised his eyebrows. “A Russian science teacher in Cold War Britain? Do you think she’s a spy?” Missy shook her head slowly:

“She’s frightened,” she replied. “I think she’s a defector in hiding.” He nodded knowingly:

“You keep an eye on her and tell me if I should make an anonymous tip,” he encouraged. “I want you to keep an open mind.”

“Okay,” she agreed obediently.

“If the voices come back, shut them out the way I showed you. They’re memories, they aren’t real, they can’t hurt you anymore. But it may take time.”

“Okay,” came again.

“The people outside, on campus, they _are_ real. They’re perfectly ordinary people and they can’t hurt you. Understand?”

“Yes.” He smiled:

“Now, my knees are killing me. Would you like to cuddle?” She nodded her head, lower lip quivering, and he stood to insinuate himself between her and the back of the chair. They adjusted limbs and she stood just enough to sit down on him rather than next to him and then he was sitting at a slight angle and she was in his lap sitting mostly sideways, facing him.

She smiled, not unlike just before the first time Missy had kissed him, and he opened his arms. She pressed herself against him, cheek to his shoulder, side to his stomach. She pulled back, eyebrows crinkled in confusion, reached forward and pulled out the spoon. He’d put it in his breast pocket. And then he remembered: “Would you like an avocado?”

She made a sound of agreement. He leaned across the table as best as he could with her in his lap, snagged the market bag and pulled one out from where he’d left it on top. He took the spoon from her,  used the handle to cut into the soft flesh, carving in a circle around the pit. Then he pulled the two sides apart. “How would you like to try to grow an avocado tree?” he asked, prying the pit out. “We could put  it in the corner by the windows.”

“If you like,” she stated softly, taking one half from him and biting into it eagerly. The look on her face was one of bliss. “It’s perfect,” she observed. He cleaned the remnants of the yellow-green flesh off the spoon, licked it off his fingers. He nodded his agreement and surrendered his weapon. She dug in eagerly. He managed to snag the salt shaker without disturbing her and offered it up. She scattered salt across the top and went on eating.

They sat together in comfortable silence, her making little noises of pleasure as she ate, him thinking about what he wanted to make for supper. He started to play with her hair, happy that it was already looking so much better. There was barely any frizz and it was almost curly. He tugged at a strand, watching it bounce back when he let go of it. He held her for a while, rubbing her back in the way he had always used to. A simple unassuming touch that meant everything.

“You said you were having hallucinations, are those different than the voices?” he asked quietly. She nodded:

“More memories I think,” she reported, tucking herself closer to is side again. “Mostly older ones, but sometimes it’s just blood. Your nightmares affected me.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathed. She shook her head:

“Don’t be, it’s only natural to grieve.”

“We never even got to feel him,” he observed. “How can something so small…” She pressed her forehead to his throat, hugged him.

“Because we already loved him and your love is infinite,” she told him.

He tried to swallow the frog in his throat. He refused to cry. He refused. She wrapped herself around him even tighter, rubbing his nape soothingly.

“Yeah,” he gasped out. “Sounds about right.”

“It is right,” she assured him. “It’s okay to miss him. I constantly feel as if something is missing.”

At least they had each other, he didn’t say. She had a long way to go yet.  
  


The next few days he almost felt as if he were holding his breath. Waiting for her to really come back to him and suddenly go into a murderous rage. Not this sweet, supportive, damaged thing that constantly felt guilt and forgiveness and needed his approval.

He showed her how to make sushi for their first supper back together. He’d learned from Hanaya himself a while back, before the deal. After River he hadn’t been able to get enough of it for a while, it became his go to snack. He couldn’t get any nori for maki in current-day England but they had everything they needed for a serviceable nigiri. He had even found chopsticks in an antique shop tucked behind the Literature department once and was able to dash upstairs to retrieve them from his office, Missy mentally following his progress.

The next day was easier. She didn't lose any of her progress while she was sleeping and there were no nightmares. She even made breakfast. Later that morning they made applesauce together. He hadn't made any in years and the last time she had been too ill to help. It was one of the foods he had hoped would soothe her stomach when the baby was still… still brand new and being quite difficult. He knew that Missy had suffered. For that to all come to nothing was still...

He had always helped his mother make applesauce as a child. Before Academy. It was nice to share this with her now. But of course Missy, being herself, wasn’t quite satisfied. She wanted it to taste more tart. They made jars and jars of it together in the end. He kept bringing her different kinds of apples for weeks and they tucked it into the pantry labeled by type of apple and level of tartness. It was almost like running a science experiment together.

He had paid for a TV to be delivered to his office on his second shopping trip, white and orbicular and futuristic looking. He’d carried it downstairs to give to her on the third day. There was no satellite TV yet and he couldn’t figure out how to get cable to her since it had been phased out for Post Office cables a couple of years back. They were able to watch with the antenna, though there were only a couple of channels and it was a bit grainier than what they were used to. BBC1, BBC2, ITV, and Channel 4 all came through at least some of the time. BBC2 was usually the clearest.

He told her she was allowed to watch while he was gone, though that didn't last long. First she wanted to turn the news on in the evening. He'd had to translate, which had frustrated her. He'd woken to find her watching BBC2 the next morning, breakfast already made for them both, sipping her tea.

It was a kids program. She repeated words back to herself, sang along with most of the songs. A couple of days later she was trying to speak to him in English, trying to get the feel for it again. She was like a sponge. Not that she had truly forgotten English, it just seemed to be locked away for the time being and she was trying to coax it back out.

The piano was delivered to his old flat a week later, but he couldn’t give it to her straightaway. It was truly impossible without the Tardis, there was simply no way to negotiate it down the stairs into the basement. His office currently had a large, unfilled hole that stared back at him accusingly. He wondered how long it would take Nardole to come back. He wondered _if_ Nardole would come back. He gained new sympathy for how Missy must have felt while he was away.

As it turned out, Missy got used to him being out far more quickly than he had anticipated. As long as she could feel his mind against her own she was content. Which was good because he was woefully behind on his planning for the semester. He had syllabi to print out, quizzes and tests to type up, labs to prepare for one of his new classes to take up the slack after Oglesby's retirement. There was more than one department meeting to attend, some slight updates to his class content now that they were in the 80's... and he was actually considering taking on an assistant for the first time. A proper teacher’s aide. Otherwise he would be forced to do work that Nardole usually did for him.

So it was critical that he throw himself into his work after his summer abroad. He finally turned off the telepathic dampening field and could actually hear and feel her mind while he was working in his office. She would prod at their link often at first, reassuring herself that he was nearby. Then she spent long hours watching television, sometimes interrupting his flow with question about the meaning of some word or what was the English word for, say, rainbow???

And he didn’t mind. He’d rather be sitting there with her. But if he tried to work in the Vault he got virtually nothing done. So he would sit in his office all day and she would wait for him ever so patiently. She tried to keep her interruptions to a minimum and started keeping a list of things to ask when he had a moment. Sometimes the answer came to her on its own eventually.

As soon as the semester began he started bringing her books. Entire stacks of children's picture books at first. Then chapter books for older children such as _Little House on the Prairie,_ _How to Train Your Dragon, a Series of Unfortunate Events,_ and _the Chronicles of Narnia_ (all of which had been hidden away in his office).

They started speaking exclusively in English within a couple of months. Her vocabulary was back to mostly fluent, sometimes with strange gaps. Even her memories were gradually returning. Not just memories they had shared, memories that she had made without him. Every night he would ask her questions over supper… Have you ever been to Raxacoricofallapatorian? When did you learn Russian? How do you feel about the IRA bombings? What do you think about Adiposian crop rotation and irrigation theory?

She had been hesitant at first. And then the stories had started pouring out of her. The time she had invaded A planet. The time she had been stranded on B spacestation, her Tardis stolen. The companion she had taken for a time. The time she had rescued C civilization from extinction or D planet from rival invasion. Sometime to enslave them. Usually not. She had been a magnanimous ruler that was quick to cede authority once stability was reestablished far more often than he would have imagined were she to be believed.

He gradually began to understand by reading between the lines that yes, sometimes she was capricious and destructive, but she also cared far more than she showed. She was prone to only showing him her worse characteristics, unapologetic. She wanted to be accepted for who she was. Unconditionally. She wanted to be kind to the small folk. She wanted to be loved. She wanted to nurture. And very often that led to horrific results. People tended to tire of her. Turn on her. Overthrow her. Because she also wanted to bend others to her will. She wanted to shape the universe in a way that was understandable, was fair. Only life was never fair.

She had learned to not take rejection or failure personally. Failure was something to learn from. They were lesser beings after all, of course they acted like ungrateful children and unpredictable animals. She was above feeling pain from it, she told herself. Only she kept making the same decisions over and over again. The destruction would become a pattern for a while. It was almost as if she felt that she deserved to be hated. She would try to be as threatening of a monster as possible, if only to provoke a reaction, any reaction, especially negative. His Missy was intrinsically damaged and desperate to be loved. But also deeply sure that she was entirely unworthy of love.

She was like a complex puzzle for him to work out. Layers that had been hidden from him for centuries were shuffled to the surface, brought forth into the light. She was trying to learn, to improve, to adapt. He kept discovering new facets of her mind, her past, her nature. He was falling more in love with her than he had ever been before.

He had once loved her for her potential, now he loved her for everything that she was, every aspect of her being. She wasn’t only destructive and maniacal; she was also delicate and introspective. And it terrified him. How long could it last? How long before she reverted to her old nature, to the destruction because she believed she knew best, or just because she felt like it? How long until she tired of him or realized that this path was too difficult, too slow? How long did they have before something else for good or bad came along to tear them apart like the soap she had eviscerated and left strewn about for him to find a few months ago?

He was fucking terrified and there wasn’t a thing he could do to stop it, a thing he would do to change it. All he knew was that he needed her no matter what the future brought. No matter what it would be worth it. He didn't have some fantasy of sunshine and lollipops. No, he wanted to believe in her, he truly did, but he tended to have the same attitude as the song she sometimes sang about lollipops at random times. “Say love’s gonna get you down.”

He wanted to be sure of her. He wasn't. It didn't matter. He was all in regardless. He was an idiot after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5k words.
> 
> I did a big proofread of this fic thus far and fixed some typos, tweeked one or two small details, and realized that i never stated how long a Time Lady pregnancy is in this story's context. So i added a picture and some notes to chapter 9 clarifying that Missy was seventeen months pregnant when she miscarried and nearly halfway through her pregnancy. And i'm saying it now: it takes three years to grow a Time Tot because of a throwaway line in Doctor Mysterio and math(s).


	16. The Row

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor continues to treat Missy...only not the way she wants him to. They proceed to fight like the old married couple they are. And suddenly the Doctor is on the couch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to new beta [D_f_m22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_f_m22/pseuds/D_f_m22) whose excitement to discover what comes next is simply lovely and encouraging as my life falls down around my head and this chapter took entirely too much effort.
> 
>  

 

Months passed slowly. Like trying to watch water boil. In some ways it was lovely. She could feel him most of the time. He rarely left her mind's reach for any length of time, took no more off-campus guest lectures or trips (he was far too busy with an extra underclassman course and no Nardole). In the unlikely event she had a panic attack he was right there in her head to calm her down, to remind her that the voices weren’t real, to remind her to breathe. He was attentive to all her needs, even physically demonstrative in a way that this form had never been.

But he was so busy dedicating himself to his work and her care that it almost seemed like...avoidance. Like he was still determined to be too busy to allow himself to recuperate. To grieve. He was strong all the time. She hadn’t seen or felt him cry even once. He was melancholy but too busy to let it reach catharsis. And so they went on side by side, hand in hand, but almost...it was almost lonely.

He had interviewed prospective teacher’s aides but hadn’t hired one. He barely slept, insisted he didn’t need it. She offered to help him with marking or even typing (surely it would be safe to set her up with a present-day computer in the Vault with some floppy discs) but he was adamant that he didn’t need help. He was so insistent that he could do things on his own. He was almost harsh about it when she became persistent, insistent that her writing wasn’t back up to snuff yet, that she couldn’t pass as him any longer now that her reading was an issue. She couldn’t even write properly anymore for goodness sake.

Her mind still struggled with some things. She could speak English and Russian again but not Spanish or French or Nahuatl or Silurian. She had no one to practice with other than the Doctor, who was far too busy to humor her. She had begged long enough for him to finally bring her some notebooks and pencils with strict instructions not to be destructive with them. And so she practiced her writing every day, in Gallifreyan and English, until it came to her like breathing again.

He still wouldn’t let her help with the marking.

She continued telling him the stories in no particular order. Her history during their separation. She never knew what would prompt a memory. She gradually began feeling more like herself, though constantly aware of how the Doctor saw her. He didn’t overtly judge her, but he kept his inner thoughts to himself during their sessions and had started to ask her follow up questions to make her think...What could you have done differently? Do you regret doing that? What were you trying to achieve?

Sometimes she had no answer for him. Sometimes she found that she  _could_ see things from a slightly different point of view after all this time. Sometimes all she could remember was that the drums had been pounding, driving her. Sometimes she didn’t see anything wrong with her behavior at all. And that frustrated him less than she would have expected, maybe because he could feel how torn up she still was inside. He still saw her as a child in need of care and protection, not fully recuperated. She  _did_ feel guilt, but it was mostly the _others’_ lingering feelings pressuring her into believing she _should_ feel guilty. She was having to come to terms with it all finally, decide what she felt for herself. Was his point of view right? Well not totally, no one was ever completely right one hundred percent of the time. In what ways was he wrong? In what ways was she wrong? How did their choices make them different? She was only trying to make the universe a better place, just as he did. At least some of the time. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

They started talking about Earth history as well, which was fraught with violence and exploitation... all of which could easily be prevented in her opinion. Was war always an evil? What if people were suffering and it could be stopped through strategic or precise violence? Did outside countries have the right to interfere then? (Did Time Lords?) Was ethnic purity or cultural purity a worthy objective? (The Time Lords had thought so.) Did it even matter when human lives were so temporary and fragile to begin with? Maybe humans weren’t worthy of being saved, had he ever thought of that? To which he had sighed:

“It’s not about whether they’re worthy,” he informed her. “They have a right to live their life in peace so long as they’re not hurting anyone else. They have a right to free will, to choose to be self-destructive. Just as you did for so long.”

Was she supposed to be comparing herself to the lemmings? Holding herself to their standards? They were all inferior to her, to the Doctor. They were animals with little to no psychic abilities and violent tendencies just as brutal as hers, idiots with minuscule minds that lacked imagination, creative impulse, intellectual impetus. They were lazy and small and disgusting. How dare he? He knew that she thought it, but he waited until she grew bold enough to say it. To his face. And he had merely stared back at her calmly, waited for her to say her piece. And then: “I thought you said that you loved me?”

“I do,” she assured him.

“And when you say that, do you only mean that you love half of me? Because unless you’ve forgotten, I am human.”

“Half human,” she corrected automatically. “No, I…”

“So you love the Gallifreyan half of me? Not the part that struggled through the Academy and couldn’t settle, that hated being what was expected of us?”

“No, Theta, no,” she insisted. “You know that isn’t true. I love that you are better than all of them put together. They all acted as if it were a given that they would become Time Lords but that you couldn’t. Presumed that you weren’t entitled while simultaneously indifferent to said birthright, and then you proved them all wrong and actually earned it. We both thought it was bullshit, only you had the guts to throw it in their face and I didn’t. Not until it was too late.”

“All of those qualities you claim to value,” he continued, “I learned them all from those pitiful humans. Not at the Academy. Not on Gallifrey. From the so-called lesser beings. My mother. My friends. They burn out so quickly, but they also see things that our minds smooth over because of our longevity. We forget. We overlook. We discard out of hand. We need the mayflies to be better. You keep trying to put yourself in authority over others because you think you know better. How are you meant to rule beings that you do not even respect or love?”

“Maybe I just want to make their lives easier, less painful.” Fair. She wanted to make life fair. She had grown up being told it was her destiny to rule, what else was she without it?

“You haven’t the right,” he rebuked. “They grow from struggle, they are entitled to their pain, just as you are entitled to yours, and I am entitled to mine.” His eyebrows were in full force: “Don’t think I don’t know that you wish you could take my pain away,” he shrugged her beseeching hands off.

“I would,” she admitted freely. “If I could take that pain into myself, or lessen your burden in any way, I would.”

“Well I will grieve in my own time and in my own way,” he complained. “I don’t need you pitying me.”

“And here I thought we were in this together as equal partners,” she stated dryly. “How silly of me. May I go to bed, sir? Do I have the right to go have a good cry about _our_ baby, my Lord?” She hoped that he might realize how heartless it was of him to lecture her about free will while he imposed his on her and she had no freedom at all. Her cage was gilded but it was still a cage.

“I haven’t set you a bedtime,” he retorted. “You watch television when you like, you read what you like, you believe what you like...”

“Oh I would if I had my own mind rather than hundreds of others’ imposing their viewpoint on me, yourself included,” she agreed. “You do go on, maybe tomorrow I will poison your breakfast as _I_ like, go steal my own Tardis and leave you here to be as ridiculous as you like.”

They were getting nowhere. She walked to the en suite, took off her armor, and slipped into a nightdress. She sat before the vanity and plaited her hair, crossed to the washbasin and brushed her teeth, washed her face. She took a deep breath before leaving the loo and crossing the room to pull back the duvet and rearrange all of the pillows. “And you can feel free to sleep somewhere else for the foreseeable future,” she shot at him before sprawling across the mattress and burying her face into his pillow to scream. She beat on it a few times and wished he would turn out the light and leave her well alone.

He came to kneel on the bed beside her instead, with gentle hands on her back, rubbing just the way she had always liked. It felt like betrayal all over again. “Geroff!” she insisted, not at all in the mood. How dare he? “I asked you to leave!”

“You don’t want me to leave, not really,” he told her softly.

“The hell I don’t!”

“That’s the first time you’ve ever threatened my life in this form, do you realize that?” he asked her, tweaking one of her plaits. She jumped up onto her knees and lifted a hand to slap him. He caught her hand easily, then her other hand when she tried yet again.

“Fuck you and your condescending morality!” she spat at him. “Everyone is entitled to their own belief system except me, how dare you try to tell me what I am thinking!” He tried to pull her into an embrace, she twisted away instead, pulling herself away using the bed frame and then backing away from him slowly but surely.

Her thoughts had been on her Cyberdears all this while, not their baby. She had tried to hold her tongue but a righteous anger had taken hold of her and he had pushed her too far now. “I was trying to be kind to them,” she insisted. “All of those stupid books you had me read promised the same thing: no more death or suffering or pain. Well _I_ am the one who managed to achieve that, I took care of them all as a mother and cared for their wounds. Every human ever born had a second chance, every tear wiped away, everyone had a new purpose: to go to war and fight for whatever righteous cause you chose, Mr. President.”

She continued to back away. He continued to follow. “So which is it, honey, do we let people suffer or save them? Do you want to defeat the Daleks and affix Gallifrey back in its place? No, apparently we let the humans wallow in their shit and make stupid choices rather than teach them anything better. It’s wrong to make them suffer, it’s wrong to stop their suffering, whatever I choose is wrong, it’s wrong!”

She had had enough retreating, stepped forward to stand chest to chest with him: “ _No one_ has meddled in their lives more than you have,” she reminded him, “you filthy hypocrite! I thought that if I tried to follow your rules you’d be happy, but no! You want me to be something different entirely, not that you can make up your mind about what that even is,” she raged. “If you want insane, I’ll be insane. If you want kind, you’re going to have to be more enlightening. If you want heartless, I can be a bitch. Maybe I’ll just use one of my pencils and give myself a lobotomy, would that make you happy?”

“No no,” he disagreed. “This is what I wanted, for you to question everything.” 

“Including my very self?” she shoved him backward, making chase. “Including you?”

“Especially me,” he insisted gently, standing his ground. “This is progress”

“Fuck progress,” she shot back, shouldering past him to go back to bed. “And don’t you dare touch me.”

 

 

 

He slept even less after their argument. He kept to his office mostly but sometimes slept in his chair or on the floor. The spring term was almost over and he could sleep over the summer, he insisted. She could feel him sulking but his thoughts were firmly hidden from her. They hadn’t rowed like this in nearly too long to remember.

They’d have to wait nine more years to try for a baby again and she wasn’t entirely sure they were going to make it. How was she meant to teach a child when her brain didn’t work properly and he was confusing what little she did know? Was she meant to be a nursemaid that fed and changed and bathed the babe but wasn’t entitled to an opinion on the care of the child? That wasn’t allowed to teach?

She had always thought that he wanted her to save the bonobos rather than entrap them. Be kind, he constantly chided. Do unto others. Did he want someone to imprison _him_ and needlessly question his every decision? She had asked him to teach her, not strip everything away and leave her broken down and worthless.

And then, since her thoughts were constantly on her Cyberdears, her surrogate children, and how she had apparently fucked even them up, her mind eventually found the memory of what he had told her in response to her gift. Before her trial and execution, before Skaro, before Clara had asked him to kill her, he had kissed her and thanked her. She had listened, hung onto every word. She had simply lost the memory for a while. 

“I really didn't know,”  he had told her with tender, trembling hands cupping her face. A Gallifreyan kiss in addition to the Human one, a brush of mind against mind. “I wasn't sure. You lose sight sometimes.”

Which was how she realized that she and the Doctor were different on a very basic level. The questions he had been asking her...were questions that he constantly asked himself. She had grown up always assuming that she was right. He had grown up always assuming that he was wrong. And after all these years, he hadn’t changed. He acted sure of himself but never took for granted that he was capable of making mistakes, of going too far, of being thoughtless or cruel. And she had always glossed right over such considerations. What could the mayflies see that she couldn’t?

Everything. She listened to the voices around her. Students revising for finals. Professors rushing to finish marking in time to turn in final grades. A girl having a nervous breakdown, worried that she was going to get a second rather than a first. A boy so distracted by his girlfriend that he couldn’t concentrate on his studies and was begging her to meet him one more time before they went their separate ways for the summer. A Soviet ex-pat feeling blissfully happy after successfully completing her first year of teaching. Simple lives with problems that overwhelmed them and gave their life meaning. 

On the last weekend before the end of term she sucked up her pride and telepathically asked the Doctor to join her for supper. He tried to beg off, claimed that he was too busy.

“ _Everyone has to eat,_ ” she had insisted. “ _Let me take care of you this weekend._ ”

It took him hours to agree. To seeing her. He would bring the food. By the time he came downstairs he was exhausted, could barely keep his head up as they ate their fish and chips. After he’d jerked awake the second time she set their food aside and tutted, kneeling down to take off his shoes, standing him up to lead him to bed.

“What are you doing?” he mumbled heavily. She pulled back the duvet, pushed him back to sit on the bed. “I’m still in my clothes,” he objected. She unbuttoned his vest and helped him out of it, then repeated the process with his trousers. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asked as she helped him lay back. 

“Because I don’t want to fight anymore,” she insisted as she pulled up the covers. “It took me a while, but I figured out what you were trying to teach me, and I’m sorry. Not that it makes you _right._ ” She started to pull away, but he caught her hand up in his own and tugged her back to his side:

“What?” he yawned. “What was I trying to teach you?”

“Oh that I’m not always right,” she explained. “That even I don’t have all the answers and see all of the necessary variables. That sometimes a second or third opinion is invaluable, especially for a Doctor.”

“And what about for you?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“For me too, I suppose,” she agreed. Though she wished he would listen to her viewpoint just as she was listening to his. It hung unspoken in the air between them. Of course he was doubting himself, that’s just who he was. 

“Will you cuddle with me?” he asked quietly. “I hate sleeping alone.”

“Of course I will,” she agreed. “Just let me take off my clothes and I’ll join you.”

Normally she would have retreated to the en suite. She preferred keeping their clothes tidy, quite unlike the current situation where all of his things were currently hanging off the brass bedstead. But instead she systematically draped her blouse and skirt and corset over the frame in the same way she had done with his outer clothes. Took a few moments to untie and kick off her boots. Pulled back her hair with a ribbon she had on hand. And then walked around the bed to climb in beside him, on her own side.

His breathing was slow and shallow, heavy with the promise of sleep. He had watched her through hooded eyes, now rolled over to insinuate his face between her breasts. He sighed and nudged his nose back and forth, humming appreciatively as she took his face into her hands. Mind to mind, whisper soft. She began to pet him soothingly, running her fingers through his madly curling hair.

“I’ve missed this,” he murmured contently. “I’m sorry.” She shushed him, bent her neck so she could kiss him on the top of his head.

“Get some rest,” she urged him. “We can talk later.” He was already asleep.

  
  


A couple of mornings later, she awoke to the sound of the Tardis dematerializing. The Doctor was sound asleep beside her, had slept through it. That or she had dreamt it. He was snoring softly. She rolled over to watch him in the dim predawn light, discovered that his glasses were still perched on his nose, an open book splayed against his chest. She sat up to slide the book out from under his sprawled arm, then took the spectacles off of his face gently. He woke up with a snort:

“What is it?” he asked.

“Go back to sleep sweetheart,” she urged him, blindly setting both items on her nightstand behind herself. Her fingertips landed on a piece of paper she wasn’t expecting. An envelope that held more than one page tucked inside, had a depth to it that wasn’t bulky but...it definitely contained something that wasn’t flat. She rolled out of bed, tried to slide the envelope towards herself quietly. It wasn’t heavy but it was at least a centimeter thick in one corner. She reached for her robe, pulled it on, pocketed the letter before doing up a bow at her waist. She pattered off to the loo barefoot. Shut the door behind herself as quietly as could be before turning on the light.

She sat on her ottoman, pulled the envelope out of her pocket, turned it over in her hands. Standard white DL envelope. Sealed shut but devoid of any external writing. Something circular and hard in one corner. Several pieces of paper. No obvious scent while sealed. Her heart was pounding. Her hands were shaking. Was this something of the Doctor’s? If so, why had it been on her side of the bed? What could possibly be inside? It wasn’t addressed to her. She shouldn’t open it. It was a mystery. It hadn’t been on her nightstand when she had fallen asleep. It had been there when she woke up. The suspense was...she hadn’t felt this sort of anticipation in ever so long. She used a fingernail to tear open the top of the envelope.

She tipped the envelope towards her palm. The Doctor’s bond ring fell out. She nearly dropped it. A returned ring was...it was tantamount to what her regeneration had been. A break in the bond. A rejection. Only a _permanent_ one. No no no. Her hands were shaking even more now. She slid the ring onto her thumb and dropped the envelope, her body wracked with silent sobs.

The door was flung open. The Doctor had felt her grief. He hadn’t gone back to sleep. Had she called to him without meaning to? Could he feel her heart breaking? “What is it?” he demanded, not angrily, ever patient, but urgently. Always so quick to focus on the problem at hand, to try to fix things. She didn’t have words to give him. She threw her hand up.

He thought she was reaching out to him for comfort. He gave it selflessly. He didn’t notice the ring until he felt it against his palm. He held her wrist ever so gently, turned her hand to look. Fell to his knees. “Missy, I know what this looks like,” poured out of him a rush. “But it isn’t mine…” he gave her his left hand. The ring still shone on his finger. Two identical rings. Right down to the nicks on the bands and the impurities in the stone. She knew this ring. She had picked it out herself after all. She had commissioned it to be made just for his hand.

She wiped her tears away. There had to be an explanation. The Doctor wouldn’t simply give his ring back without cause. She wiped her tears away. Retrieved the envelope. Pulled out the sheets of paper that were tucked away inside, opened them and started to read...her father’s handwriting sprawled across a page stained with...wine? Engine oil. She knew his hand even after all this time, could hear the passion in his voice. It was addressed to her Thete.

> Your overtures towards my daughter are entirely unwelcome, I assure you. I know full well of your status as a member of the Prydonian Chapter, the farce of greatness that you have brought to a reputable house that is all uppity disrespect and no actual substance. You are completely and utterly unworthy, I assure you.
> 
> I have been against your association with my child since she was still small and you ran wild together, distracting him from his studies and constantly getting him into trouble. I always feared you would corrupt her in this very manner but her mother...she insisted that we be lenient and that I recuse myself, as is her right as the bearer of my children. You do not warrant the title Time Lord thanks to your father's sins and your semblance of suitable genetic heritage. Would that I could separate you from her for eternity.
> 
> But my daughter's mind is made up and I have reason to believe that announcements are to be made soon... despite the fact that she has shared no such tidings with me. Since deed is already done, I am forced to thank you for taking care of what is mine, what I failed to protect, and attempting to restore honor to her name. I cannot and will not attempt to undo your alliance.
> 
> So if I must give my blessing and permission then I ask of you an impossible task. Make my daughter happy and elevate her to the station she deserves. Not for an era or an age but all eternity. Build her a dynasty that defies all other such pretenders as she is due. If you must court her you should do it properly, with all necessary thought and care, a full seven years as of old. Bring forth a family so wise and powerful that her name replaces Rassilon’s as the foremost of Gallifreyan history and culture. This you must do before you have even a hope of earning her.
> 
> I know of your unspoken sin as well. That you would tie yourself to my child before proper maturation was even reached...you do not yet understand the damage you have done. You could have followed her across the ages without sullying her in this way. She will always be reliant on you in ways that I cannot begin to express. She will never be a separate person unto herself as she ought to have been. My brilliant star, she could have had the infiniverse, and as such you must give her at least a universe to earn her in mine eyes.
> 
> But I very much fear that you will fail at the task I have set you, never to live up to the potential that you have stolen from a better man who should be in your place instead of you.

It only took her a moment to scan. She had already started to reread it with more care when: “Where did you get that?” her husband asked, desperation tinging his voice. “Missy, don’t...please don’t read that.” She held it to her chest:

“I found it in the same envelope as the ring,” she told him, voice still rough from crying. “You never told me my father hated you, never let on.”

“We didn’t let it air out in public,” he refused to meet her eyes. Was staring at the letter in her hands as if it were guilty of the worst betrayal.

“Honey, I’m hardly public.” She surrendered the letter, uncovering another in the process, this time from her mother. Lavender-hued stationery and the scent of her mum’s perfume still lingered ever so fuzzily, far too faintly to be detected by anyone other than a close family relative after all this time.

> ...It may be strange for you to understand when my own bondmate is so harsh and distant but I bonded with him for love, just as you have chosen to do. My consent I gladly give...

“He didn’t want to make you choose between us,” the Doctor returned, carefully folding her father’s correspondence. “I didn’t either.”

“She was always apologizing for him” Missy mused. “I would have chosen you flat out. I couldn’t stand him. We were too similar.”

“Yes, I see that now. But you have parts of your mother in you as well...” She passed him the second letter, which of course had also been addressed to him, and started in on the third. Written in the Doctor’s own hand:

> You gave me this ring once. I have always felt unworthy of it. I took without asking permission, without considering the potential consequences...

“You didn’t need to ask, it was fated,” she mused, still reading.

> ...I return it to you now not because I have no desire to wear it, but because I do not deserve it. I have not earned it.
> 
> I ask your permission now to court you. The idiot you’re reading this with is too stupid to say any of this but he knows it as well as I do. You deserve to be courted. I know you will object but allow me to show you the depth of my feeling and seriousness of my intentions. I cannot give you the infiniverse and probably never shall but I am attempting to help you build your dynasty and earn my place in it.
> 
> I humbly submit that consent has been freely obtained and that tokens should be expected forthwith. If, after seven years have transpired, you still feel I am worthy of your attention I will humbly resume my station as your _mate_.

And then below, almost in afterthought...

> I ask most humbly that you forgive me for all that I am about to do and be towards you. Even if I act distant never doubt my love. Beside you kneels a man that very much needs you more than ever. Yours ever...

It was signed with his given name. All formality melded with intimacy, just as she would have wanted had she let herself dream.

“Missy, what does it say?” he asked, reaching out for the letter. She snatched it away, folding it back up and tucking it under her bum.

“This one is _not_ addressed to you,” she scolded gently. “Let’s just say that it clearly states a singular Idiot’s intention to court me because he apparently has done something unforgivable.”

“What?” His face crinkled adorably in confusion:

“The letter is from you,” she explained. “You will have asked my permission to be formally courted, and I accept with all my heart…” she leaned forward to kiss him on the mouth. His whiskers tickled. She held his face in her hands, studying him, allowing him to internalize.

“Are you saying that a future version of me has asked permission to...to actually court?” he seemed to have no words.

“Yes, and how do you feel about that?”

“Well it’s something I’ve always wished we would have done,” he admitted. “But it seems superfluous. We’re _already bonded_.”

She made a sound to indicate she was thinking. Now that he had put the idea in her mind, ridiculous as it was, she was gagging to know what he planned to give her, to do for her. His hand found her bare foot unexpectedly: “Do you wish me to renew my intentions?”

“Silly sausage,” she objected. “Whatever would you do that for? No, I have nothing to fault you for. And you needn’t be jealous of yourself, you can stop that _right now_.”

“I am though,” he baldly declared. The confession delighted her, sent a thrill of anticipation through her, but at the same time amused her:

“Jealous of the man who has apparently messed up beyond forgiveness?” she scoffed. “I can read between these lines, honey...”

“No,” he denied. “Jealous of the man who gets to earn you back. Who gets to court you when I never did.” She smiled gently:

“You will, I’m sure of it.”

“What could I do…” he broke off, his voice heavy with emotion, “How could I be so terrible a man that I need to beg your forgiveness in this way?” She shook her head:

“Nothing,” she confessed, kissing him once more, a quick peck on the lips. “There’s nothing you could do.”

“Stop forgiving me!” he demanded. She stared at him, anger building in her chest:

“I refuse,” she stated coldly. “You cannot order me to not love you, I forbid it.” She stood, taking the letter with her, tucking it against her breast. She crossed the room and left him behind, entering the Vault proper and turning on the light. They were up now. There was no use trying to go back to sleep when he had work to do. Coffee then.

She had just started to cross the room when she realized that the Vault’s dais was significantly emptier than usual. “Where is my tea table?” she demanded. The familiar round inlaid wood table--a vintage Victorian coffee table to be exact--and matching chairs were missing, had been replaced with a simple tall, thin, pristine, antique, ivory, wooden tower of drawers. A jewelry armoire. She couldn’t help herself, she dashed forward to touch, to see...

“Oh, I’ve finally done it,” he observed, having followed her out of the en suite. “I got rid of that fucking table that ex-you invaded.”

“I quite liked that table,” she told no one. He wasn’t paying her any attention. He was trying to ignore her, had already moved on towards the kitchenette. The armoire was draped with a shawl. Hand knit in a lovely deep violet. Soft and ever-so lightweight but warm. She draped it around her shoulders. He started banging around in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors, making coffee for himself. She ignored him back.

She opened the side doors first. A necklace chain had been tucked away inside: platinum, delicately wrought, but indestructible. She unclasped it to slide the bond ring onto, then reclasped it around her neck. It was the perfect length for the ring to rest against her sternum, between her breasts, above her hearts. As it should be worn during a courtship once a Time Lady’s mind was set.

She started opening drawers. They were all unlocked and empty. There was no sign of the key. Plenty of space for rings (she loved rings), for bracelets, for earrings (she’d never bothered to pierce her ears, it didn’t go with her Edwardian aesthetic). Nestled in the bottommost drawer was the pièce de résistance, a celtic wire tiara, delicately wrought, embellished by a moonstone and amethysts. She lifted the circlet to her brow: it fit her head perfectly.

There was a bang in the pantry. “Fuck me!” he exclaimed. She closed her eyes, took a bracing breath, and turned to follow him into the pantry. Which was now closer to a storeroom.

It wasn’t full, not yet, but there was an abundance of shelving arranged around a large, square entryway. Everything had been rearranged. A section of teas and coffees. A section of food staples from Latin America, masa and cornhusks and dried peppers and beans. A section of Japanese food staples, white rice and dried nori and furikake and togarashi and mayonnaise. A walk-in freezer close at hand.

He turned to face her, eyebrows in full force: “This is ridiculous, I won’t have it, I am perfectly capable of providing for you and where is the applesauce?!?”

“Yes, you are ridiculous,” she agreed. “And I love you for it.” She stepped forward, pushing him roughly against the shelving before pulling him down into an insistent kiss. He flailed. She persisted. He gradually melted beneath the dominance of her mouth, his lips opening in invitation, tongues sliding against one another’s. He held on for the ride. She thoroughly ravished him for a long while longer, until finally their excitement and longing and anger felt as if it had been expressed for quite long enough, and she released him.

He blinked, staring down at her as if stunned.

“You’re beautiful,” he announced.

“You aren’t so bad looking yourself,” she allowed. “The applesauce is in the next aisle with the oatmeal, dry cereal, and granola. But I will take requests for breakfast seeing as you have more work to do before you are ready for class.” His mouth wobbled, opening and closing in silence. And then:

“I’d like coffee, a parfait, crepes, and waffles then,” he demanded at last. “Oh, and bacon.”

“Waffles?” How was she mean to wrestle that up?

“There’s a new waffle iron on the kitchen counter,” he informed. And a whole array of flours for you to choose from in the opposing next aisle over,” he pointed.

They were going to eat like kings and queens today, she decided. Which was when he knelt down. What now? Oh. He was picking up the letter. His letter. It had fallen from where she had tucked it away. He stared at it for a long moment, fingers hovering, snatched it up and held it out to her as he stood: “I’ll respect your privacy,” he promised. “Just…” he swallowed heavily.

“What?’ she gently prompted.

“Would you like me to be more like you, is that what this is? You missing me being reckless and impulsive and...violent?”

“This isn’t impulsive, honey,” she cajoled, sidling closer. “You’ve obviously planned this for years, were already considering courting me. I believe ‘always wished’ is the wording you used.”

“Don’t deflect,” he insisted. “Do you want me to be more...more like the Master, less myself?

“Never,” she declared. “I insist you remain true yourself. Whatever you will have done to hurt me, you must will have had your reasons. It’s just as likely to will have been my fault as your own.”

There was something else eating away at him, she could feel it but not grasp it. Except…”You’re afraid that there’s still no children,’ she suggested, “or worse, there is and I’ve cut you off.”

He nodded silently. She wrapped her arms around him, drawing him down to herself, fingers at his nape again. She pinched his pyjama collar, playing with it as her other hand tangled with his curls. Too close, too much like a hug, like deception. She pulled away enough to look him in the eyes. “I can think of no reason that I would ever make that decision,” she declared. “I have only ever wanted to do this with _you_. None of the nitwits at Academy, Not a single alien emperor or king, sultan or czar. I am tickled pink that you want to court me but it is completely unnecessary. I always knew that you would be mine. Always.”

She pulled away, leaving him to blink at her brilliance, looking more than slightly stunned: “Leave me,” she commanded loftily. “Breakfast has been demanded.” She floated off towards the flours, spinning for good measure. She felt divine. She felt powerful.  She felt worshiped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 6k words and i had to cut the original tail end out to put in the next chapter because it was getting entirely out of hand. The drama.


	17. Reconciliation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Missy receives a guest in the Vault and the Doctor stews. Nardole finally returns and the Doctor comes to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to the lovely [D_f_m22](https://archiveofourown.org/users/D_f_m22/pseuds/D_f_m22) for being my beta and offering so much moral support.
> 
>  

She was wearing her new shawl over her best blouse and skirt when he came to her later that same day. It was mid-afternoon, and her Doctor had just started to proctor an exam, and she was reading _Half-Blood Prince_. The Tardis materialized directly in front of the Vault doors. Inside the Vault. She hadn’t known he could do that. It seemed as though the Vault should have better defenses in place than that. Why she could have programmed her Tardis to respond to a sonic signal and materialize in just the same way had she had the foresight. She marked her place, set her book aside. He stepped out of the Tardis.

He wore the same face, once more clean shaven. A navy wool jacket covered a navy velour hoodie and a rumpled t-shirt that she didn’t recognize. Black skinny jeans. He looked utterly knackered and...younger somehow. Vulnerable. Far more exhausted than her own overrun Doctor. Still, he had an energy to him that she could taste on the air. Anticipation and doubt.

She stood and strode straight towards him, fully intending to kiss him. It was a tradition she was growing fond of.

“I ask that you withhold your physical affections from me at present and revert them to my former self instead,” he warded her off, almost dancing around the edge of the room, keeping his space. She froze mid-stalk, far too far apart for her liking, frank in her fond regard. “I want to do this right,” he insisted heavily. “Not make her as jealous as I have already made myself.”

“Now why would I be jealous of myself, dearest?” she pooh-poohed.

“Why was I?” he defended. She huffed:

“At least sit with me and hold my hand as old friends,” she requested. “Tea?” It was still hot enough for him. She returned to her chair and started to pour. It seemed a natural place for them to begin. He collapsed into his own chair, accepted his cup and the casual brush of her fingertips. She settled back and studied him some more. He really was quite beautiful and current him rarely gave her the chance what with his busy teaching schedule. And their recent time spent on the ropes.

It was no wonder why he seemed so exhausted. Not only had he provided his first ostentatious (rightfully so) tokens the night before...he had the smell of baby all over him. Spit up on his chest. A dribble of breast milk on his jacket sleeve. A fresh dusting of whiskers barely visible on his chin. The open buzz of a new familial bond, so intense and raw and utterly perfect. She could feel it tugging at him across time and space, urging him to return to his mate and child, breathtakingly strong. Future her must will have ordered him to come to her at a time like this. To leave his child, so young, was unthinkable. And yet here he was.

“Yes, she forced me to come,” he admitted tiredly, twiddling with his marriage ring. She hadn’t known that he still possessed said ring, was unused to seeing it on his hand after so much time. “It’s hard to resist her just now…” he admitted. Yes, it would be. Not only would he have been hyper-aware of what she had experienced during the birth, he would be even more tuned in to her needs afterward and would be for the first few years of their child’s life.

“Why now?” she probed.

“Because you told me it was time,” he answered. “Who am I to argue with your time sense?” He took a long drink of his tea. “I know what your answer is, what I want to know is why?” He yawned, then continued: “Why do you turn me down? _She_ won’t tell me.” She turned her cup in her saucer, fingertips worrying the delicate handle: she had fully intended to say yes.

He seemed uncomfortable with her silence: “And a part of me wonders if it’s all spite,” he confessed. “You scheming with yourself to make myself jealous on purpose, to wake the Idiot up,” he reached for a biscuit, took a bite. “But then, you also deserve everything I have to give and more, nothing could…” he choked up. The biscuit crumbled in his hand. “It will never be enough.”

“Would you believe me if I said that it’s for you?” she asked.

“Please be serious,” he petitioned, trying to retrieve all of the crumbs he had dropped. “I’m too tired to play games just now.”

“I’m not the one who’s gone behind my own back,” she observed. “How long is it going to take for you to let me love you?” she asked. “To see me as I actually am?” She paused for effect: “Ten more years? Thirty-five? Sixty? The entire thousand?” She sat up straighter, turning her entire body to face him. “I love you.”

“But why?” he asked, a tear on his cheek. He jabbed at it with his thumb, wiped it away insistently. “I’ve made mistakes...wasn’t faithful to you.”

“I know. I don’t care,” she assured him matter-of-factly.

“I’ve treated you as an animal meant to be caged, to be muzzled…” She rolled her eyes. So dramatic. “I ran from you, we were apart far longer than we were ever together.”

“Are you trying to talk me out of loving you _again_?” she asked. “Is that what this is? Because it didn’t fly this morning, either.” He shook his head emphatically:

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, refusing to meet her eyes. “I regret the way I’ve treated you. Not only that, I made a promise and I broke it.”

“What promise?” she asked, confused.

“Spoilers,” he rasped out. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”

“Am I missing something here?” she asked. “Because you are clearly still very much bonded to me and our offspring.” He sighed, rubbing his eyes as if he had a headache:

“I wondered why she insisted I not change into cleaner clothes.”

“Honey, I don’t need to see or smell it on your clothes, it’s written all over you. I can feel it pulling at you as clear as day. I’d be insulted if you were trying to hide it.”

“Don’t tell him,” he insisted. “He doesn’t know. He never realizes until it’s almost too late. He’s so wrapped up in it right now, too busy attending you to attend himself.”

“Stop deflecting!” she insisted. “You aren’t telling me anything I don’t already know. And you’re right, I wanted him to show me that he loved me, but you know what? You already have… _he_ already has.” She sighed, considering: “Opening your letter and gifts today made me feel more loved and wanted and desirable than I have ever done,” she told him. “But you’ve already proven yourself to me. You’ve taken care of me for decades now. Fed me, sheltered me, clothed me… that’s the first year of courtship well sorted. But yes, he did need a kick up the backside.”

She set her cup and saucer aside, reached for the chain at her nape and opened the clasp. She pulled the ring free and set it on the table between them: “I reject your statement of intention,” she informed him. “ _Not_ because of the fact that my father wasn’t really giving you the time of day at all and you well know it…” He had the decency to look guilty. “Not because I wouldn’t adore being pampered and showered with gifts, which I would, I _would_. I _really_ would,” she acknowledged, her Scottish getting thicker as her emotions rose, “but because it is completely and utterly unnecessary.”

She played with the chain absentmindedly: “I’ll never understand why yer still inexplicably feel the need to _**earn** my affection_! I suppose I don’t tell yer enough, but I don’t care one whit about yer _supposedly_ inferior genetics. I know _the others_ gave yer hell for it, but did I ever give yer the impression that I thought less of yer for it? That I was using yer ta make myself look better?”

“No,” he denied emphatically.

“You were so different that I couldn’t get enough of you,” she confessed. “Utterly unique, exotic, mesmerising. They all expected you to be lesser, and yer not. Yer never have been, yer never will be. I’ve known for as long as I can remember that it will always be us against them.” She let out a humorless laugh: “Always,” she repeated, now stroking with the spine of the book she had been reading. “I’ve spent all this time tryin’ to earn yer trust, yer love. Because yer all I’ve ever wanted, but I know I’m damaged goods, I know I’m not worthy of you.”

“Stop that,” he demanded, reaching out to take her hand in his own. She smiled and met him halfway:

“I’ve known it would be you since the day you held my hand in front of the untempered schism,” she confessed. “You wanted to know if I have self-doubts, well I don’t, not when it comes to us. We’re a matched pair, and that’s quite enough talk about who’s worthy or not.”

“Okay,” he agreed. He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then to the pulse points at the inside of her wrist. “You love me?” he asked.

"I love you,” she confirmed. “And I look forward to giving you another baby.” He laughed:

“Don’t,” he petitioned.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Watching you put yourself through that is part of the reason I feel…”

“Stop it, stop it this instant,” she insisted. No wallowing. Not another hint of her future yet to come. She knew the end result, that was enough to keep her on task. She could endure anything for another baby.

“I know,” he agreed, squeezing her hand.

“I don’t want you to change for me,” she insisted.

“No no,” he objected. “You were right about me. I needed to face my grief and get past it. I needed to learn how to trust you again.”

“Yes, well, as for my Doctor, I do fully intend to make him as jealous as possible. So do you have a gift for me?” She asked. It was customary to bring a token to each assignation. He let go of her hand, pulled a small brown paper bag out of his pocket, set it on the table between them.

“It’s not much,” he grumbled.

“You’ve already done more than enough for one day,” she insisted, snatching it up, then inexplicably taking her time unfolding the neatly creased edge to open it up. This would be the last gift from him for a long while and she wanted to make sure he knew: “I adored it all...thank you ever so much.”

She looked inside. Homemade jammie dodgers. She pulled a card out of the bag, the recipe written in her own hand. The gift was technically from herself then. She laughed. She set it aside and plucked out a biscuit for the Doctor only to find...he was asleep. His teacup was barely perched on his saucer, which had drooped precariously in his hand. She retrieved them before he could make a mess, then took a bite of the biscuit herself. Her tongue burned delightfully.

She picked the recipe back up. The back held the instructions for raspberry green chile jam. Slightly caliente. She stuffed the rest of the cookie in her mouth and continued to chew. “This time around _you_ are in charge, not me,” she observed contemplatively. “I can wait to give you your reward.” She opened her book and continued to read.

 

The Doctor could sense that she wasn’t alone. He dare not go downstairs and confront _himself_. He was currently too angry to trust himself not to do something rash. So as soon as he left the classroom he returned to his office and started marking exams. He was finished far too quickly, which gave him ample time to continue to fume. He paced his office for a while, considering. Whatever was _he_ thinking, making a move on a former version of their wife while she was currently in a happily monogamous relationship? He could feel how wrong it was for his future self to be here, how strong of a pull _he_ had towards Missy, and it infuriated him even more. He carried on pacing.

This morning Missy had said that she was pleased that they wanted to court her. He, himself, now. Well two could play at this game, no doubt. Future him thought _he_ was going to court his wife, he would give _him_ a run for his money. He opened his storage room, moved some junk, opened a chest, and pulled out the soft black DK weight yarn that he had been saving for a rainy day, a set of circular needles, double pointed needles, stitch markers. He put the junk back, carried the knitting tools back to his desk, sat down, and started to cast on.

Half an hour later, his future self was _still_ downstairs ostensibly fraternizing with his wife! He worked the needles faster. A neckline was beginning to take shape with quick rows back and forth. He heard the Tardis start to materialize, nearly dropped a stitch. A gentle breeze like a draft wafted across his face. He pushed the stitches farther onto the needles and set them aside. His Tardis landed with a familiar dull boom.

He was bursting into the console room as soon as materialization was complete. The Tardis welcomed him home with vibrant vibrations that felt like laughter. He gasped in surprise, had tried to forget how soothing that felt, kept striding towards the console:

“What sort of hour do you call this!?!” he demanded of Nardole. He started checking the controls, grunting when he saw what had happened. The idiot has transposed a number. “I told you not to touch anything!”

“I’ve done exactly as you asked and this is the thanks I get?” Nardole hmphed.

“You’ve been gone an entire year!” the Doctor griped. “You agreed to take care of Missy for the summer…”

“I never agreed,” Nardole intoned, sounding bored.

“...and I come back to find not only is she sicker than ever but that her mind’s been damaged by her lack of social interaction to boot!”

“Oh no,” Nardole squeaked. “Was anyone hurt?”

“She was hurt!” he fumed. “She’s mostly back to normal now, but that’s after months of panic attacks and therapy! Give me that letter back.” Nardole pulled said correspondence out of his pocket and handed it back to the Doctor with shaking hands. The Doctor pocketed the envelope and carried on checking up on the Tardis. “This is why you shouldn’t meddle,” he huffed, flipping a lever. “You’ve been gone a year and I’ve been at wit’s end trying to stay on top of all my work. Let alone care for Missy.”

“I’m sorry sir,” Nardole intoned dutifully.

“I was beginning to think you would never bring her back!” he confessed. Nardole somehow looked even more striken than usual. He sighed. There was no point in taking his anger out on the cyborg when it was really himself he was angry with. “Why don’t you take off for the night?” he urged. “I’ll shut the Tardis back down and see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, sir,” Nardole agreed. He didn’t waste any time leaving an irritated Time Lord who may very well choose to chew him out more if he overstayed his welcome. The Doctor clicked his fingers and the doors shut behind his hapless servant. He tinkered with the coordinates and moved the Tardis to his flat. Well, it was mostly Nardole’s flat now,  he never stayed in it, not even when Missy was not allowing him in her bed. Moving the piano was quick work with the anti-grav cart. It was soon tucked away and securely stowed in a cargo hold. Nardole would be none the wiser. He returned to the console room next, sent the Tardis back a couple of decades to Italy.

“Right, if Missy wants to be showered with gifts, I’m going to shower her with gifts,” he grumped to the Tardis. “Let’s go shopping.” And so they did. For Italian pastas and tomatoes and spices. For gelato and italian ices and wine. Then to Greece for olives and olive oil and cheeses. Ancient China for silk and fans and a calligraphy brush set. Japan to have the silk made into a kimono. France for post-WWII high couture fashion (no easy feat when she wasn’t present) and to have silk made into negligees. For art supplies, hats, breads, and more wine. Switzerland for chocolates. New Zealand and Peru for wool. Australia for beef. Jewelry at every stop and gems from across Africa for him to make more personalized jewelry in the Tardis.

For forty-eight hours he put the Tardis through her paces and filled a cargo bay to overflowing with tokens of his affection that he fully intended to gift Missy over the next year and beyond. Their months together since his return to Bristol had reinforced their bond to the point that a seventy-two hour jaunt was entirely permissible. Especially when his future self was with her while he was away.

Lastly, he visited a home improvement store in the 22nd century Britain to buy an island countertop with a built in island sink and an electric stovetop...all to put in the new storeroom. An updated kitchen. Two larger electric ovens, waist high and stacked above so she wouldn’t have to bend over or squat down. New cabinets. A larger icebox. A countertop dishwasher. New canning supplies and baking dishes and pans. Everything she could possibly want to...play the part of a regular June Cleaver or Fanny Craddock. She was going to give him grief. Yes, this all fell under the purview of the first year’s tokens, but for him to go so domestic what with her always having been a career woman and him the stay at home dad.

He landed the Tardis in the storeroom directly, looked outside his doors to check his parking. He flipped a couple of switches, dematerialized and left the island countertop behind, centered between the pantry door, walk-in freezer, and a bit of blank wall that he intended to fill with the remaining cabinets and ovens. He rematerialized farther down the aisle, exited the Tardis and pulled out his sonic to reprogram the Vault plumbing and electrical system. Everything was already installed into the counter, it just needed to be hooked up.

Fatigue was starting to catch up with him. He’d caught up a bit on sleep over the weekend but was still overtaxed from the stresses of the semester and being on the outs with the wife. He wasn’t quite sure why he was so tired though, he should have caught up enough on sleep to only truly need a nap for the rest of the week. He’d only been gone a couple of minutes, was resisting the urge to leave this for the next day. He wanted bed but he also didn’t want to face himself just now. And _himself_ was still present. He kept working. Finished the counters, moved on to the cabinets, then the ovens.

He heard laughter: Missy’s and _his_. It was so disconcerting hearing himself from a distance. He knew _he_ was him, he did. But it felt like a brother or cousin who was a completely different person. Someone intimately familiar, and trusted, but also someone that he was currently insanely jealous of and angry at. He kept working.

He heard the Tardis begin to dematerialize in the next room. His heart gave a great lurch: what if Missy had decided to go with _him_??? He was out of the storeroom and into the Vault, sonic raised offensively, before his brain caught up with his feet. Missy was picking up the tea things. He had missed out on tea. But she was still here, was positively glowing.  She brushed past him, acting oblivious to his distress. He swallowed hard, followed her to the kitchenette where she was pulling on rubber gloves to wash up.

“Thank you for staying” he rasped out, throat tight, She jerked, glancing up at him:

“You sound terrible,” she observed. “Look terrible, too.”

“I feel terrible,” he allowed. His eyes lingered on the chain at her throat: “Is it decided then?” he couldn’t help but ask.

“Of course,” she assured him brightly, still washing. “You know you really should get some rest, you sound like you’re sickening for something.”

“Soon,” he agreed. “Nardole came back finally.”

“So I gathered,” she noted. She started washing dishes, humming as she worked. He turned away, returned to the storeroom. He needed to finish the oven hookup. It only took him a couple of minutes. He made sure the Tardis was locked, stroked the Old Girl in appreciation, and finally headed to the en suite to get ready for bed.

Missy was already in residence, standing over the sink in her nightgown. She had some sort of cream on her face. She must have made it from foodstuffs she had on hand, he certainly hadn’t bought her anything. Makeup, nail polish, and facial masks would do nicely for smaller tokens, he mused. He stripped and stepped into the shower. By the time he was finished and had changed into his pyjamas she was already tucked into their bed, spectacles perched on the tip of her nose, reading a hardback _Harry Potter_. He climbed into bed, bone tired. Flipped the duvet off himself, was too warm for it.

It was early yet but he was exhausted. He tried to remember if he had gotten everything done for the next day, his last day of term really. Only office work for the rest of the week, easy days filled with boredom. He would knit for her some more. Missy sort of hummed to herself, not musically, but as if she were thinking about something. She put her bookmark in after a couple more minutes, set the book aside, placed her folded spectacles on top, turned out the light.

The room was still light enough to see her but not to read by. It wouldn’t be full dark for hours yet.  She wiggled further down into the bed, rolled over to press herself against his side, asked: “Is this okay?”

He grunted his acquiescence. She understood him perfectly. Started rubbing his side and chest soothingly. He felt himself start to sink towards unconsciousness. “We had a nice visit,” she assured him, “completely innocent.”

“I don’t want to hear it,” he grumbled. “I trust you.”

“Liar,” she shot back playfully. No spite or reproach. Her nails scratched down his side, gentle through his pyjama top.

“It’s _him_ that I don’t trust,” he clarified drowsily. She laughed:

“But he _is_ you!” He shook his head:

“Don’t ask me to make any sense, it’s a purely instinctual thing. I feel it most times when I meet other versions of myself.” He had a vague sense that he and Clara had bumped into himself before. This body. And the other one had been him as well, yes. It hadn’t been jealousy that time but he still hadn’t trusted himself. He’d felt annoyance, even hatred.

“How would you remember?” she queried.

“I just do,” he insisted. “Bits and pieces at least. Pinstripes and junior got on well. Recorder and Aikido didn’t get on _at all;_  Grandpa had to mediate.”

“How strange,” she noted, internalized for a while. “Do I get on well with myself?” she asked.

“I’ve only seen that happen once so far,” he mumbled, gradually drifting off. “The answer’s no, you did not get on with the cachinnator.”

“It’s so odd not being able to remember,” was the last thing he heard her say before falling into a deep sleep.

 

They had woken far too early the day before and today was no different. His mind was wide awake before dawn, his heart pounding with nervous anticipation. He returned to the storeroom in his pyjamas, moved the new fridge and plugged it in. Then he started arranging all of the food stores on the shelves, realized that the sections were alphabetized--in Gallifreyan order--and carried on arranging things using the same system.

He felt her before he heard her. She came to him blurry eyed and still half asleep looking like a sulking child. The first thing she did was walk up to him and insinuate herself against his side. She was shaking. Cold, but also scared.

“Hey hey hey,” he soothed, rubbing her back and arms briskly to create heat. She’d forgotten her robe. “What’s wrong?”

“Bad dream,” she informed. “Don’t like waking up alone.” He let out half a laugh. She’d been insisting on waking up alone until recently.

“What do you say to a checkup?” he asked. She made a sound of disinterest. “I’d really feel better if we knew you’re well on the way to recovery now,” he encouraged, voice bright. “We don’t even have to go to the med lab, maybe we can figure out why you’re still cold all of the time, yeah?” She made the noise again but nodded her head:

“Yeah,” she agreed in a vulnerable voice.

“Half a mo’...” he bustled off to the Tardis, sliding inside and across the cargo hold to flip a couple of switches. He switched the entryway from CARGO 5 back to the console room. He had to run upstairs to get back out.

By the time he got back to the console room Missy was standing just outside the entryway tentatively peering inside. “Come on in,” he urged brightly, stepping up to the console and switching it to scan mode. She pulled a face:

“Stop talking to me like that,” she insisted.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a child,” she clarified, still hovering. As if she was afraid to come in. He had still been using his friendly voice. He crossed the room and joined her outside.

“I’m sorry,” he said in his normal tone. He stared down at her, and waited for her frightened eyes to stop scanning the empty console room as if something was going to jump out and attack her and instead meet his own eyes. “Is she too much?”

“I just don’t know how she’ll react,” Missy admitted. “Last time I was unconscious as you recall.”

“Last time you were in dire need of medical care,” he gently corrected, “and she kept her opinions to herself.” She blinked:

“Oh,” she said in a small voice, “I remember the miscarriage but had forgotten my recovery,” she confessed. “I spent the night in the Tardis.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And how did she make you feel then?” he asked.

“Home,” she breathed. “She felt like home.” She braced herself and stepped through the entryway alone. The lights pulsed a touch brighter. He followed Missy inside. The Tardis made welcoming sounds, little bubbly vworps of chatter. Missy closed her eyes and lifted her face, soaking the telepathic energy in like sunlight.

“I know,” he told her gently. “She feels amazing.”

“I’ve missed this,” Missy confessed. She opened her eyes to smile at him, already looked stronger. “I can only imagine how much you did.”

He cleared his throat, bustled back into action. Booted up the scanners and started to run a full medical scan. Snatched his black jacket with the red lining from where it was draped over the jumpseat and wrapped it around her shoulders. Went back to the console to await the results. She followed him at a more sedate pace, gaze now caressing the bank of switches, toggles, and knobs rather than his face. She started to walk around the perimeter of the console. “Don’t touch anything,” he instructed, watching her out of the corner of his eye.

Her hand darted out and she flipped one switch. He jumped. A 3D holographic representation of her scan flickered to life, hanging nearby. Tardis had shown him representations of his companions in that same place once or twice. She approached the dancing electric blue light, tsked. “My adrenals are out of whack,” she noted.

“Yes, and you’re vitamin deficient,” he agreed. “Your entire system is still coming out of overload.”

“How long is it going to take me to fully recover?” she asked.

“Another year or two probably,” he estimated. “Putting the baby on hold might not have been the best idea,” he realized. “Tardis thinks the pregnancy was putting undue stress on your body even then.”

“Yes, I was all foggy and ever so slightly fatigued,” she confessed. “I should have said something.”

“I want you to tell me everything next time,” he petitioned. “I want to monitor everything closely.”

“You’re going to be insufferable,” she grumped, throwing herself into the jumpseat.

“The more information we collect the easier it will be to try to head off problems,” he insisted calmly.

“The easier it will be for you to try to tell me that I shouldn’t be putting my body through it at all,” she accused.

“We can cross that bridge if we come to it,” he dismissed.

“All of my doctors broached that subject sooner rather than later,” she confessed. He turned to face her, surprised. She’d never let on. “They’d make sure you were out of the room. They’d pull me aside after, or give me a stern talking to on a day I came in for lab work. Unnecessary risk, unknown factors. I should terminate, choose a safe, acceptable donor instead. You would probably still be able to bond with the child even if it wasn’t genetically yours, they said.”

“That’s…” he was speechless. How dare they? “You never should have had to put up with that sort of nonsense,” he insisted, angry for her. He suddenly realized that she looked small and vulnerable despite the fact that Tardis was pumping happy telepathy into the room. Why was Tardis so happy to see her?

“I was gum in the works,” she scoffed. “They’d never had to deal with high-risk pregnancies. After all, no one else was trying to cook up hybrids. They were shocked that you were even capable of fathering children. It was an oddity until it was a problem. Didn’t you ever wonder why I changed doctors so often?”

“Strong-willed and hormonal? I didn’t think anything of it,” he confessed.

“Several doctors refused to even oversee my care,” she informed. “But you’re not entirely wrong. I walked out on the more vitriolic offenders, didn’t want to hear a word against you, kept hoping to find someone who would believe in me. That I could give you a child despite the risks.”

“That last doctor you had…”

“Was deriding me to the nurses behind our backs every chance he got,” she interrupted. “But he was the best so I was willing to put up with it.” She shook her head, huffing: “Everyone else had blamed you for putting me through it time and again. He blamed me. Was of the opinion that my body should have handled it better and I was being hysterical or something.”

“We’d already tried multiple times,” the Doctor allowed. “You were so strong, I don’t know how you did it.”

“I could face anything as long as you were with me,” she asserted. The Tardis chirped, and he turned back to the console.

“Well she believes in you,” he noted. “Clean bill of health anticipated in sixteen months with projected course of care...and if you continue to put on about half a stone more.” He reached for the new atomizer syringe that had popped out of the console from his sonic screwdriver charge port. She had created his current sonic of course but this was new. Drug delivery without a hypodermic needle. Cutting edge tech even for early-twenty-first-century Earth.

The Tardis was still formulating the actual recommended injections. It would take a couple of hours at least. He would need to start working on her vaccinations after that. He stepped away from the console, started playing with the syringe, flipping it over, twirling it with his fingers nervously. “You haven’t said anything about my new token,” he broached, staring at the floor.

She looked confused, as if she couldn’t fathom what he was talking about. Realization came to her suddenly. She stood, crossing the console room to the entryway, somehow looking refined and purpose-driven even barefoot and in bedclothes. He followed her out, into the new storeroom turned mad kitchen. She was drifting one hand across her new island countertop.

“A couple of stools and we could even eat here,” she mused before walking around to the sink. It had a hose built into the spout and a smaller faucet for drinking water. Reverse osmosis. “Careful Doctor, you might give a girl ideas,” she murmured.

“What sort?” he probed. She turned to face him:

“Oh, that this could become a home rather than a prison,” she suggested, stepping closer. “That you might actually forgive me of my crimes and trust me again.”

He shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, pocketed the syringe so he would stop fidgeting. He wanted to tell her that he had forgiven her. But he knew part of himself didn’t trust her, even now, not fully. She stepped closer, lifting her chin and staring at him in that way that suggested a kiss was imminent. Her hands came up to caress his collarbones, and he took a step backward, pressing his back against the smooth door of the black stainless steel fridge preemptively. The shelves had been painful.

She had come with him of course, hips close but ever so slightly absent, teasing. Her eyes sild between his eyes and lips indecisively.Their breathing had instinctively synched. She bit her lip suggestively, then: “I’ve been thinking about your offer to renew the bond,” she confessed.

He could feel his entire body reacting to her proximity. They hadn’t been intimate in a while now. Weeks. Even before the row. ”Yourself let something slip,” she continued, “about a promise you made me.” She reached up to play with his left ear, fingertips tracing and pinching gently. He shuddered:

“Promise?” he gasped, his voice embarrassingly high pitched, his eyes sliding shut in desperation. If he looked at her just now he’d get even more excited. He still wasn’t sure she’d welcome such advances. Nardole would be angry unless he put the Tardis back in his office soon. Best to think of Nardole, yes.

She tsked, sliding her hand around his nape to tangle in his hair, to hold but not tug. His eyes flashed open and she was already stroking his neck soothingly.

“A promise that you’ve broken,” she scolded, voice sounding the slightest bit hurt.

“Missy, we’ve been over this. When I left you it...it was to try to fix...fix you...our...fix me if need be,” he stumbled over his words. She looked unimpressed by his excuses thus far. “Yes, my absence was wrong, despite my best inten…” She pressed a finger against his lips, shushing him:

“There now, don’t fret, I’m not angry,” she assured him brightly. “I just want to hear you say the promise,” she urged. “Can you tell me what it was?” He blinked, shifting to make a bit more space between them, took her hands in his own:

“On my oath as a Time Lord of the Prydonian Chapter, I will guard this body for a thousand years,” he recited solemnly. She burst out laughing. He deflated. “What?” he asked, wounded.

“On our disreputable house, really?” She extracted her hands from his, took a step back. He followed, hovering:

“I had to make it sound impressive for them,” he explained.

“So the promise was for them, then,” she accused. “I see.”

“No, you don’t,” he insisted. He took her hands again, “listen to me.” She stilled, gazing up into his eyes, looking completely innocent. He didn’t know how she managed to do that. Especially while manipulating him like this. “I meant that promise. I’ve changed my entire life because of that promise, for you. No traveling, no companions, no adventures. Just you and me…”

“And Nardole,” she corrected impatiently.

“...and Nardole,” he agreed. “Do you think a thousand years too slight a number? Too easy?” The silence stretched heavily between them.

“Ten thousand years with you wouldn’t be long enough,” she confessed, looking breathtakingly vulnerable.

“I don’t know if I can give you that,” he objected. “You’re right, I don’t trust you enough to promise you that, but I _am_ trying. I’ve been patient and forgiving, surely you know this.”

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I _want_ to believe in you. I will guard you for a thousand years,” he repeated. “I will protect you and try to guide your recovery. I will remain faithful and try to give you more children. Is that not enough?” She closed her eyes, took a steadying breath:

“It’s too much,” she contradicted. “You almost lost your Tardis for me, that’s far too much for you to be expected to bear. I want you to be able to travel. Especially now when we’re waiting for our next try, I want you to be free and happy. I don’t want you tied down for my sake.”

“That was never the deal,” he reprimanded. “It’s far too risky, I might be injured or die. I might choose to sacrifice myself rather than keep my promise and come back to you. I might abandon my resolve to care for you,” he rattled off. “No. I promised to guard you and am resolved to keep my word.”

“What if I came with you though?” she tentatively ventured.

“We’re decades away from that being a possibility,” he insisted. “I can’t trust you, Missy, no.”

“Then how could you possibly trust me with any future children?” she demanded. “You act as if I might take them away from you, the opposite is far more likely. You’re in charge now, not me.” She grabbed his hand and pressed his open palm to her breasts, directly over her hearts: “Both of them yours,” she confessed.

“I know,” he reassured her, taking her hand in his own again. “I know,” he whispered. “You were a wonderful mother, selfless and attentive. It killed you to go back to work, do you remember?”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I wanted to spend every heartbeat with our daughter. It was so difficult to watch her grow up. To let her go to Academy. To watch her slip away from us.”

“Time stops for no one,” he agreed, “We weren’t perfect but our hearts were in the right place. I trust your love. The devotion that you showered her with as a child. The pain that drove you mad after she was taken from us far too soon. The love that stayed your hand when you could have killed Susan.”

“It wasn’t her fault,” she scoffed.

“It wasn’t the fault of any of the people you killed,” he contradicted. “And I think you would rather protect our children rather than become that broken thing ever again.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “I would rather be a mother than a monster.”

“That’s why I will trust you with our children,” he smiled. “Despite the fact that I don't know what you would become if you had to tear the universe apart to find them, to protect them.”

“I would be unstoppable,” she confessed.

“Focus on being a good mother rather than a good despot,” he suggested. “And then just maybe we’ll get to keep our first promise.” Her face seemed to light up with hope:

“Every star,” she breathed. “Do you mean it?” His heart was pounding with nervous anticipation.

“Yes,” he confirmed. He’d never wanted anything else more in his life.

“I can be patient,” she promised. “I’ll be good.”

“I hope so,” he confessed. He really didn’t want to be hurt again. He didn’t think he could survive if she betrayed him again. But it was a chance he was still willing to take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you have it, even Gallifreyan doctors are assholes who don't listen to their patients. Over 6.5k words. We're gradually getting closer to what was on the show.


End file.
